Sunday, February 2, 2014


A chain of events
like plastic rings
fragile and explosive
they break
under pressure . . .
a small wayward movement
a drift of the vehicle . . .
waiting for angels . . .
the mind sleeps
as the eyes glaze over 

anxiety lives in the heart
where the churning
of dynamics
shreds the wing
of the butterfly
and caves of solitude
beneath the crumbling
remain unmoved
but what is cherished
in the face of change
is the power of

and who am I
to stand against the tide
to break the wave
to stanch the bleeding of the wind
to drop a fragile egg
    and watch it explode
There is death in
    the flower
as the beserker
      goes astray
black flies on her face
like tears
at the end of the race
no smiles
of joy . . . .

Must of been bleak that day I wrote this . . . sad mood !

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