so, I'm walkin' in this kind of tunnel
                strolling really
        that not quite strutting kind of
        ambling that tells you I'm better
                than you
        but, I'm not gonna rub it in
 
and I have this vague sense of
                "man-made
                 man-made"
        bouncin' in the grey
but, it just seems too ancient  
        like someone would have constructed
                during the march of the fish
                                        to dry land
                if someone were around
 
and though the seal is tight
I have an uneasy sense
of water all around me
with some kind of telepathy at play
        conveying feelings without language
                        it's music, I think
                        but, there isn't a tune
                        there's harmony but, no melody
        and somehow the feeling of the song
                envelops me
        and now I'm thinking: "Oh Lord!
I'm supposed to be the melody!"
 
But, I'm not fitting in
there are so many parts
in too many octaves
        and I'm being drowned
        without water
        though feeling surrounded by it
 
                                        and off in the distance
                                        I hear a pretty voice humming
                                        "la la la" over and over
                                                so, I join in
                                        "la la la…..la la la"
                                and add a little "la" of my own
 
                and now I'm losing the beat
                and I'm singing louder now
                                "la la la…….la"
                                "la la la…….la"
        but, damn it, it's not connected to anything
        and it's not matching anything
        so, I'm becoming frightened and forlorn
 
and I'm just screaming now
filling the tunnel with some kind of
                echoing screeching wail of sorrow
                        and I'm falling apart
                                        cell                 by                    cell
                        and the tunnel is collapsing
                        molecule            by                m  o  l  e  c  u    l      e
and the water I surmised
is seeping in
drop by
        d
        r
        o
        p
 
and I'm in some kind of primordial soup
cells meeting molecules surrounded by drops
and though I am completely dismantling
                                I am still aware
                                        even while I bond with foreign particles
                                        and                   dri      ft
                                        in some ever expanding sea
                        I feel countless cells
                        brushing by me
                        sometimes crashing into me
                        and further diluting me
        and finally all I am able to say
        is that I am a part of this
        and I realize in every scattered piece
        that all of this is a part of me
 
and now I am back in the tunnel
a sense, no, a knowledge of water
                surrounding me
 
an ancient structure indeed
filled with melody
past…present…future
all in counterpoint
all one work
 
                                I boldly sing my song
                                I cry as I hear it echo
                                through the tunnel
                                growing as it joins
                                the work in progress
 
and now I'm still kind of amblin' along
a little humility, a bit of arrogance
'cause I know I should be
so, la di la di da to you my friend
 

Once again, mighty forest, the battle is engaged.
Long have I rested, midst these silly fairies
and this foul pukish stench

These garish flowers, pretentious colors dancing,
like so many stupid puppets,
with tangled strings in the hands
of a drunken puppeteer.
 
And you, shall I bow my majestic, ancient,
oaken, kingly, wrinkled wreck?
with your leaves, once vibrant
and a defiant, grand green;

Without humility, how you displayed yourself, for all to see.
I am so sorry, my dear friend,
about your lovely riot of color.
It seems I have turned it the most unfortunate
shade of bitter brown.
 
Oh, dear me, I have shown a bit too much passion,
when I blew a kiss
and every last leaf went flying off your limbs
and are now lying
like a crinkled, crispy corpse upon the ground.
 
Oh No! It is not laughter you hear.
Just a trick of the breeze, through your immodest
and shocking naked boughs!

But, still you do not bend. Dear me.
I am most chagrined. What must I do, sweet friend?
I will horribly howl and hellacious breezes blow,
relentless, tormentious and crippling cold.
 
Still standing, you damn fool? I am warming up,
as you stand there, without the sense to run.
Feel my wretched, drenching downpour
on your brittle, skinless bones,
frozen missiles, hurled relentlessly
downward…..sideways striking vicious blows.
 
Finally, torrential downpours of snow
covering every trace of your miserable self.
Not a trace of you remains in view.

A white ghost stands where you once stood.
I remain alone and victorious over everything.
There is only me.
I have won.
 
 

Author Notes

This was for the personification of winter prompt. I was too late. If you think I would have won, I am happy to accept cash or McDonald's coupons. I accept donations out of pity as well. Pride is for sissies.

Chapter 44
Stiletto Heel

By michaelcahill

I careen through the poisoned underground currents,
holding my breath
               
                       with vague trepidation-

For I choose this pathway, somehow.
It is seeping through my pores;
taking me in a more subtle way,
             with my respect, of course.

As I wish it after all my false denial.
As I feared in every cell.
As I couldn't stop anyway.
               
         And finally
                 I breath deep the destiny
                 of that first glance;
                 subdued by endless wasted denial,
                 weary of an ego dance avoiding defeat.
                 The façade of my hidden power
                                                                 crumbles.
 

I fall to the ground.
As you walk by.
Your stiletto heel
pierces my eye.
               
"Sorry", you say
                  as you carry on.
                                               
                              My heart sings with joy
                                     for you noticed me.
                                                               
                                                  You actually
                                                         noticed
                                                                me.




 

Chapter 45
Hunger

By michaelcahill

I remember being poetic
                long ago
when my heart was a cathedral
        made of organ pipes
                shinning brass tubes
                untarnished
        and angled glass
                refracting light
                into colorful dreams
        surrounding the melody
        and conveying it skyward
        with a pretty picture of a galaxy's lost aria
 
I remember being athletic
hanging naked
from a trapeze
in a leather collar
        scaring them
        and inviting them
        at the same time
                of course, they had to know
                                had to
 
I remember the giddy pretense
of a ginger bread dream
that I baked inside their thoughts
 
                and now
                I must confess
                I wish I could capture
                as clever a liar
                for myself
 
I am hungry
tarnished
and alone


 

Chapter 46
Another Winter

By michaelcahill

Winter. Oh, dear friend, winter.
How endearingly long
have we solemnly spent
       our solitude silently together,
              as life doggedly endures
                     a stoic inspiration?
 

I seek your company every year,
and silently applaud,
       as spring...summer...fall,
              rest within the strong cradle
              of your steely-eyed resolve.
 

Yet, for all my reverence and attention,
I have never seen it snow,
              till now;
                     even as I, myself, have entered
                     my own perceived winsome winter.
             

This is my very own spring and dancing summer
                     come to sudden life,
                           a pleasant surprise indeed.
                                  This is not relentless rain-
                                         stern and predictable,
                                  nor haughty hell-bent hail-
                                         rude and admonishing.
This lives in defiance of every law,
       foiling gravity's stern admonitions
              with but the softest chuckle and wink.
 
 
I know God is well-pleased
       with every Summer's spectacular riot of color
              and the smiles of all his children
              frolicking carefree in the abundance of plenty.
 

But, I know as I see these snowflakes,
       dancing...darting...floating
down, in patterns designed by playful angels,
that this is where the Lord
       comes to play
              with me.


It is why I am not cold.




 

Author Notes

upon witnessing snow for the very first time.

Chapter 47
Mowing Balloons

By michaelcahill

words to soothe
            and smooth
                an aloe vera blanket
                to cuddle in

where is truth
in words measured
                and chosen carefully
                put in order
                to please the ear
 
the truth is in the thinking itself
                the endless downpour
                the mind's bedside vigil

if only I could lift off
                                the top of my head
                                and show you
                                               
                                                look at it!
                                                
                                                for God's sake!
               
                                that's what I'm trying
                                to
                                explain
                                in such a tidy
                                drip
                                dry
                                kinda way
 
I'm talkin' bout
                                  
                                   a lawnmower mowing
                                   a field of water balloons
 

Chapter 48
Wings

By michaelcahill

It is honey
          and nightshade
          that coaxes
                      a butterfly to beauty
    

born a caterpillar
           hope grown in chrysalis
                                 takes wild flight
 
 

it is love
that transforms
the humblest of creatures
and adorns them
with
                                   wings


 

 

Chapter 49
Another Time and Place

By michaelcahill

Another time-
Another place-
            And where is the road
                        that leads there?
What device of time foretells when?
 
                        So weary of irony and pathos,
                        Nobility, a thorn in my ass,
                        Honor is some hat racks companion,
                        Character, my assassin.
 
There will be another,
(but, I want no other)
            some tasty dish, to erase
         your limited visage.
But, I'm already blinded by merengue,
            in my lemon whipped world.
 
You'll love again.
But, not like this,
         not like this.
                                    And now I understand
                                                stalking and peeping,
                                                a voyeur's predilections.
                                    Those are by-products of want,
                                                obsessions relentless beckoning,
                                                mocked and ridiculed,
                                                by your own joy,
                                                            insanely happy,
                                                in the midst of your tragic failed existence.
 
I sit at a table,
surrounded by elegance,
broke and eating breadsticks;
watching them eat my steak.
 

 

Author Notes

the unwanted encouragement from friends when your heart is broken. you know who you love. you don't want to love anyone else. at least not yet.

Chapter 50
Secret Worth

By michaelcahill

maybe being admired
          for your nobility
is the ultimate goal sought
 

but, the conquering hero
receives but empty cheers
riding the winds of envy
          cradled in silent and bitter tasting
                                       rationalizations
 
         
          of course if you were there
          in that particular happenstance
          the cheers would be for you
                   you lick the urinal rim
                   to expunge that jealous taste
                   contemplating the cool waters beckoning
                             imagining your epithet
                             when they realize
                             their           sleight
 

and what of our reverence
          for your suffering
                    as all you sought is forfeit
                    all your just desserts
                    spoil in the burning valley
                             for want of a spoon?
but, aren't we all chuckling to ourselves
behind the stoic guise of pity?
          we somehow manage to avoid embrace
          for fear the jinx will rub off
                   a condolence by its very nature
                   only brings solace to the messenger
 

is there not a sweet taste
in a love unrequited?
surely we all sigh at the thought
                   or, maybe the remembrance
          but, what is more safe
          than a silent world of possibility
          where no door is opened
                yet, no door is closed
                       and endless journey imagined
                       rocked in the cradle of could've been?
 

but, in truth a thought has no weight
                             unspoken
                                                          unspoken
nobility after all
is just another word for inaction
inaction the cornerstone of cowardice
                             to endure your life
                                      without reaction
                                                or expression
 

how foolish to emulate the pallor of death
and accept the tip of a hat
as payment due for your effort
                   you don't get to hear your eulogy
                             no matter how elegant
you leave with your final thought
          a remembered victory
          a lie uncorrected
                             your private defining moment
                             known only to you
 

I'll be thinking of a kiss
 

 

Author Notes

a long warning for those that need it.

Chapter 57
Born Without a Belly Button

By michaelcahill

Author Note:

PROBLEMS? WHAT PROBLEMS?

Born Without a Belly Button

 



"Arrested", says the power in the tower.
"Busted", says the cool cat cajoler passing by.
"Caught", says the trout, blameless, no doubt,
 despite the cry of the minnow with the hook through its eye.
"Escape", says the lifelong conniving schemer-dreamer,
"forego the blame and tilt the mirror anew".
 
Grandiose is the plan to save the world.
Hell on Earth is our potential should the skies
ignite, not in warming, but in a firestorm of proof positive.
Jabberwockies snicker snack in delight on crispy critters
knowing that the irony of myth has brought them to life.
 

Let the truth remain locked in the frozen tundra.

Millennia will march by before revelation. (they pretend)
No one shouts of doom unless seeking an audience.
Only a soothsayer speaks of "impending"; prophets portend--
Profits? Yes! Let's get back to the matter at hand. 

 
Quizzical as always, the children ask, "why"?
Response comes with resplendence: "be, Cuzz".
Should success suddenly be cast aside?
Thinking like that is thinking like that thinking.

 
Universal togetherness categorically identified,
verifiable cautious agendas optimistically shelved,
whateverness in cleverness displayed.
Xenocratic roundtable discussions about to commence!

Yes, a whale is a mammal. But it is certainly confused. No?

 

Zeus, please bring a little reality to bear…

 

 

Author Notes

xenocracy : government by a body of foreigners

Chapter 58
On the Cusp At Midnight

By michaelcahill

Author Note:

A BRIEF AUTOBIOGRAPHICAL VIGNETTE

 

On the Cusp At Midnight

 



drunken sperm brawling down the chute
         (a hero is among them)
a clever sober drive to glory
a small but determined race to victory
                against all odds to be
 

                                the one
 

oh those poor ovum, ovulated under duress
undulating in tortured worrisome worlds
                of dementia
                paranoia creates a miasma
                suitable for impregnators in a stupor
 

                                there is
                                one
                                though
                                waiting for a genetic miracle
 

Dateline: San Francisco Bay
Mare Island Naval Base
(Alcatraz Island drools in envy)
January 19th, 1952
The chicken or the egg?
               

                                the Eagle, baby!
 

Alone and content on an unobtainable oubliette
a mountain goat of many colors
eyes the great sea said to be forbidden
                he jumps and flies without wings
                the wind is impressed and smiles
                the water is churning indignantly
                mountain goats can swim
                                            if they want to
 

Well …

Ozzie claimed to be an insurance agent
                    (a secret duck and cover liason leaning
                      against a cold iron curtain ... Marilyn never
                      showed. Imogene Coca was on a different
                      chanel and Cuba was an island)
and while the cat was away
Harriet made curds and whey
and therapy would be invented in the near future
 

                Michael was mistaken for a girl
                with golden locks and bluesy eyes
                it amused him
                as did insanity
                and various imperfections of humanity
                he appeared unaffected by the pressures
                                attempting to cook him
                                                (the debate steams ahead)
 

Then ...


Dead President and yeah, yeah, yeah
promotion to omnipotent twelve-year old
leader of the pack
he appeared unaffected by the maladies
                enveloping his world
                                (he laughs at the debate)
 

HIGH school wasn't for him
the crowd being stupid and he being smart
accepted by
he rejected
                in secret
(Purple haze, war the craze, I left the maze)
 

yes, the girl, always the girl
 

things with strings
things with keys
things with valves and buttons
songs to sing
words to write
 

                a world to mock
                laughing at
                and with
                                sincerely
 

getting older
                measured
                treasured
                uninterested in assessment
                                                      (or investment)
                               

                                 and the girl, always the girl
 

time eliminated from the continuum
age, rules, comparisons
for others
 

but the childhood, the hard life …
the Responsibilities, 
the family with the willies...
the effects debated still
the smiles questioned
the still waters plumbed for depth
the explosion anxiously awaited
It has to affect him@psycho.com
 
 

I, poet laureate of the universe,
laugh as I let off steam
 

disaster averted

                                        

 

and the girl, always, always, the girl

 

Author Notes

Capricorn/Aquarius Dad an abusive alcoholic, mother insane. figure out the rest. :)

Chapter 59
Why I Divorced a Writer

By michaelcahill

Author Note:

NEVER MARRY A REVIEWER

Warning: The author has noted that this contains the highest level of sexual content.

Why I Divorced A Writer
 

He called this dirty talk:

"Hey baby, how 'bout some enjambment?
This time I'll give you some alliteration!
I even brought a cork for my assonance.
Oh yeah! Feel those dangling participles slappin'?
I'll be back, Honey. I have to take an onomatopoeia."

Not one comma for me. Split my infinitive? Ha!
Yep, divorced him and his Heroic Crown!







 

Author Notes

This is all just stuff I heard. None of this is auto biographical. NONE of it ... really.

Chapter 60
Perseus and Medusa

By michaelcahill

Perseus and Medusa
 

 

Medusa young celibate
                beauty fair
committed to paths
                straight and narrow
 

Poseidon she found enticing
 and rare
                how she wanted him
                                                     deep
                                                                in her marrow
 

jealousy flourished
                and curses were thrown
                                her hair turned to snakes
                                and her eyes shot red


if ever a soul viewed her
it was known
she'd turn them to stone
 

But relief can arrive
                                guised in irony
Perseus had tasks to complete
                and her head was a prize
                for his epiphany
 

she sought death
he obliged
 

To Perseus she'd been
                                a deed to extol
 

from her view
                'twas mercy freeing her soul



 

Author Notes

Yes, the staggered lines are intentional. It's a technique in free verse to draw the readers eye across the page. It highlights certain phrases and is designed to encourage pauses for reflection. I realize that some find the technique distracting. If so, just read the words in order and try to ignore the format. Words are words.

Chapter 61
Bottle Cap

By michaelcahill

 

Bottle Cap



I wake up with cuts--
semi-circles
with ridges
a mystery to a groggy mind
 
another drunk night
another fight
with no one

I'm sure the sun would smile
if I deigned to draw the drapes
 
my hand sweeps under
that foreign land
under the sofa
a bottle cap
it's green
with red splotches
I know those blotches
were inflicted by some fool
(I use my sleeve 
to sop up drool)

this bottle cap
I know I've seen it
once before
 
a peppermint schnapps top
but of course--I remember
it's that cap
from days of yore
before my core became sore
I was a fool with a bottle cap to blame

I recall it put up no resistence
when I slipped my fingers
gently round it
and began to twist
it wasn't long
before I cast it aside

it offered no protection
for what it proposed to
seal within

well, that is just 
a memory unremembered
that she told me
most unkindly
wasn't my finest hour

my friend, this bottle cap
you did me no favors it seems
 
and now I place it on the table
and when my brain is able
I'll fill it with the good times
we once shared
 
but it might be night
and I feel like a fight
the guest of honor
has arrived
 


 

 

Chapter 62
To Gather No Moss

By michaelcahill

To Gather No Moss

 



the stillness of the river
stirs the butterflies
inside this stone
alone
amongst the many
the clinging has already begun
and moss grows
 
we tie together
and start to tether
as though the current
were a bad thing
an evil thing
 
this bed here
this bed we dig into
where we lean
against each other
and pretend
we are one thing
 
this bed is not for me
 
I leap for the current
even as I hear the cries of
"NO!"
and sure, maybe a whisper or two
regrets my absence
but it's the space and the buttress
that most bemoan
 
I see a bend in the river
and make my escape
rolling ever on it seems
the moss fades as do the
memories of it growing
 
the trap is no more
 
I find myself alone
in the sand
nothing grows on me here
nothing binds me
 
I've found what I sought
and endless time
to contemplate it






 

Author Notes

"A rolling stone gathers no moss".

Chapter 63
Love's Sweet Accusations

By michaelcahill

Love's Sweet Accusations

 
Childhood:
 
Hopscotch, monkey bars and merry-go-rounds--The stained off-white swimming pool at the city park.
But why are you late? Mom drove by the park. The pool was empty. The merry didn't go, the bars had no monkeys and scotches didn't hop … a lie? untruth? deception?
 
the need for
      explanation, accounting, evidence,
 
surprise
      interrogation, scrutinizing, investigation, castigation, toddler incarceration, supper deprivation
 
learning
      guilt early with curly locks to hide behind so they don't find the innocence destroyed
 

sweet child at play
conniving feigned innocence
mommy's sweet boy
 

 
Wedded Bliss:
 
and freedom rings  O O
one for me and one for you
I do, you do, we do two
the bridesmaid winks
we're on the blink
I swear to no avail
it's raining--no it's hail
I'm turning rather pale
I'm in my father's jail!
Well, I got a girl just like the girl
only the start dear heart
every move and word heard with every meaning
and every gesture leaning gleaning every possible
nuance and influential possibility of damnation
figured and deduced from what I didn't say or do
or what I might have could've did if I'd had the chance
regardless of what I say
that doesn't matter anyway

 

wedded bliss
my sacred vow eternal
cell door ajar
 
 

Seeking Love:
 
lesson learned
I won't be burned
a leaf's been turned
some joy's been earned
 

I love you
oh, the bliss!
 
 
                       but, what about this?
 
 

Ah, love's sweet accusations….
 
They do not sway me






 

Chapter 64
Just A Thousand Oceans

By michaelcahill

Author Note:

LOVE IS LOVE REGARDLESS--A GOOD THING

 
I ponder oceans
but not their depth for that is known
to me and surely known to you
                and yes I've considered
                mountains tall piercing Heaven
                knowing you are of its fabric
 
it is miles considered
on this lonely beach
and how to breach
the vast expanse of circumstance
                the waves roll in
                                and offer not a ride away
                                away to you
                                where I know you've built a castle
 
our souls dance in the mist
far out to sea
where no one need be privy
                a sweet embrace
                                that is only beautiful
 
such is love
when the oceans
do not approve



 

Author Notes

This is me and Tori Amos. I'm sure she'd NOT be pleased. :)) Not exactly sure what the song is about, but many of the phrases strike me as ones that pertain to the feelings I'm expressing, so here it is.

Chapter 65
And Sometimes You Just Fall In Love

By michaelcahill

And Sometimes You Just Fall In Love

words can lie
they can manipulate and cajole and deceive
if that is the intention
of their invention
men know this all too well
 

but then words can climb
                an ascension
                                when they flow without agenda


a heart that empties
a soul in flight
a mind in thought unencumbered or slumbered
 

                in innocence, a like mind might encounter words
                                and see--
                                a heart
                                a soul
                                                thoughts
 

pure and simple strands of truth
that weave into a tapestry
 

it is a covering unknown to any but this lonely heart
shivering in the dark and finding the surprise of sudden


                                      warmth
 

                sometimes boys are reached just like that
                before the more foolish parts of them
                               

                                  can speak
 

maybe a poem
maybe a story
 

but sometimes
you can fall in love
just like that
 

                in secret



 

 

 

 

 

Author Notes

Apologies for the sound quality, etc. This is all I have. I had this little tune I was tinkering with and the phrase "A loss for words" in my head. So, I started playing and this is what came out. Overly long, choppy, sloppy and noisy, yes. When I get discovered and signed by Geffen Records I'm sure I can improve on it. :))

Chapter 66
A Fickle Majesty's Rule

By michaelcahill

A Fickle Majesty's Rule

 

 

Finally, the searing sneering sun sinks from view
and you join me, friend and companion
your smiles dance across me shimmering
I fear the sun pays not the slightest attention to us
                he gazes out, I imagine, unaware we are here
                                perhaps we are too small
                                                for such a grand showman
 

ah, look, upon the beach
they embrace as though nothing in the universe
               
                         exists
               

                                      but them       


come closer, dear lunar friend
help me to reach them with a little tickle
 


so lovely to see
let me serenade you with my song
the roll of my waves
the slap against the sand
the churning as I mix with the shore
and the whoosh and echo of my presence
as I retreat
the haunting mystery of melody from farther out
whispers of things unknown
truth lost in the fancy of a fickle breeze
 


your every sigh and intimate moan
enters my crests to be conveyed to parts unknown
another beach, another shore, other lovers
a song for them in perfect tone
 

 

why oh why do they not remain here at the shore
what more could they wish for
 

but they forget these nights as though dreamed of
 

does the sun anger them and drive them mad
 
 

                how well I know anger
                                the sun does irritate
                                intrusive and relentless
                                                nary a moment's peace
                                                yes, a friendly cloud to shield
                                                but the sun squeezes and worries
                                                                it to tears

 

 

 

                I rise up in frustration
                                futile, for she never leaves
                                but an evening's respite      
                                                always returning
                                                her power never diminished
                                these fools frolick
                                                feeling a frisk dominion over me
                                                I strike you down with a swift
                                               reproach for your discourtesy
                yes, the shore seems distant now, doesn't it?
                                my cool embrace not quite so inviting
                                                my wonders lie below
                                                your whimsical ponderings
                                                                your coming recompense
                                soon you will lie on my floor forgotten
                                                rotten as I roll by
                                                never shall I mention you again
                                                nor will I allow your discovery
 

 

Fools! You think me serene?
for I am wont to be so on a summer morn
torn will you be
forlorn should you be sworn
by the foolishness of your own mythology
I am no myth
is that not enough for you
a mountain that moves at my whim
to engulf you for my own amusement
your vessels so grand
splinters and twisted metal
                to decorate my floor
                seen no more
                                not even a bone survives
 

 

yes, sit by my shore
in the moonlight
I allow it
for now
it pleases me
 
however …. 

 

 

Chapter 67
twin chairs rocking

By michaelcahill

Idle longing-- envisioning
lucky smoky-room encountering
endless daydream erupting
raptured entwining

sighing ...

            twin chairs rocking




 

Chapter 68
Souls Know

By michaelcahill

Author Note:

IS THIS ABOUT YOU? YES.

 
surely, though a whisper in a prison,
souls know only truth,


words that aren't words waft on the wind.
and the fickle currents
bow to their will and intent
for the impish breeze does have one master.
 

the soul speaks;
the heart and mind listen,
and for a moment
all is known in certainty.


a sprite without a name
can only dance a joyful turn.
 

would that the heart harken purely
to the music
but hearts are healing places,
and wounds in the most delicate places
heal slowly and scars impede
a smooth touch confused by resistance.
 

the most well intentioned kiss
stings when applied to a bruise;
the most-tender caress
grates across an uneven surface;


words not even known to be careless
grip tightly to a meaning
unknown but to the rhythmic beat
suddenly interrupted.
 

being foolish, we solicit definition
and ascribe blame
or declare innocence
when neither need be considered.


the inexplicable retaliation
to the warmest smile
garrotes the tongue
and inflames it.


venom forms in the empty well
(a space heretofore unknown)
and spews forth in a surprise attack.


war commences in
the most peaceful of valleys.
and the burn obscures
the idyllic landscape.
 

the soul pines in


solitude,



                   ignored
 



love becomes a word
to bandy about,
   its expression
   paralyzed by the folly
   of awareness.
 

still,
it is real,
though encased in regret
and twisted by the past.
 

to set it free,


                            listen...











 

Author Notes

I told myself I'd stop posting. Something told me different. This looks to my liking in classic Fanstory if you've a mind to switch over for a moment. :)) Thank you Rama Devi for pointing out the little details that elevate this piece so much!!

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