down and *****
in an unlit street
her heart beat
once
then
double time
collecting coins
from grasping
fingers
dollar bills
would make her
eager
but her heart beats
once
for just coins

Something to place
over her eyes
when sleep
wants to come calling
So she's not unprepared
when on her knees
she's crawling
in her despair

towards salvation
at the end
of her damnation
she'll take a nation
who never cared
unless her legs
were in the air

First line says it all
Second line says more
Third line is a little different
Forth line makes you sure

Fifth line takes you places
Sixth line has never seen
Seventh line is hasty
Eight line is a little obscene

Ninth line grasps the tone of Eight
Tenth line will make you blush
Eleventh line will stop and pause
Twelfth line will fall into the hush

There may be a thirteenth
or fourteenth or fifteenth line
a sixteenth or seventeenth
that might have left you blind

An eighteenth line that made you yawn
A nineteenth that made you smile
A twentieth that made you stop
reading for a while

A twenty first or twenty second
that commanded you go back
to the start

Or a twenty third and
twenty forth line
was what grabbed your heart

The twenty fifth line
undid all your beliefs
The twenty six line
walked down old streets

The twenty seventh and twenty eighth
crossed paths that were parallel
The twenty ninth and thirtieth line
knows stories it will never tell

Yet only the first line is read
the last line is the lie
that forces all the other lines
to just sit idly by

I don't ******* care
what's out there
Nemo was a stupid fool
that little tool
had it good
being the centre
of someone's world
We are just plankton
waiting to be swallowed
by the yawning maw
of an industrious whale
waiting to be eaten up
laying down tracks
like a laborious snail
just slugs
tresspassing upon gardens
that are richly scented
with heavily perfumed
'a la, smell me please
leave your heart to me
and I'll trample it
to get my feet wet'
Little fish in big ponds
get to hide between
the rocks
They get to frolicking
between frocks
of seaweed and coral
that chokes or
cuts like fine glass
Little fish in Big ponds

tend to outlast ;)

The sound of running water is soothing.

Ritualistic, by nature, it just flows and pools until it stills, to be able to reflect back a scene that is silent, if you stay frozen long enough, staring, it captures a picture like a photograph. Still, unmoving…

Inside the steam that rises is like an early morning fog that delights the human eye because it can’t see beyond the ugliness that lies outside its door. Inside the fog, a whole new world is created. Something else, becomes more…

In the silence of the water no longer running and the steam that evaporated and has taken away the message from the mirror that you wrote, who knew it would run away to hide?

There is now the choice of a weapon of disposal. A choice that would forever be the marking of a soul, never caring, will never take a side.

Standing in front of a still whisper of water that is ready to receive a body that is intrinsically woven within its own fabric and ready to step back into a time when it was just, was... a time when it ebbed and flowed and could just be…

As a sacrifice, the robe drops from naked skin, dancing, floating, to pool at feet that have walked through fire, have been burned by ice, that have traveled a road that should have never been walked and ended up with photographs, of things, that nobody, NOBODY, should ever have to dream (as nightmares) let alone live, or see…

Sinking below tepid water to wash away every sin that has ever been, ever was, or, God Forbid, should ever be. There is horror looking upon sights that most would consider evil or gory, but still they tell their own story.
Looking down through clear, still water, it’s still possible to see, everything, including all imperfection, in all it’s glory.

Taking the weapon of choice, a razor sharp edge, like a sword that has been swung to defeat all its foes, it is forged by the fires of Hell to cut through skin and bone, to bathe the water red, to hide all the imperfections from a sight that is never blind…

It’s not beautiful, but it is bliss, there is no beauty inside a world that takes away a haunted soul that thinks the only way is to make it to the water, to be washed away on a tide of self hope and never think about the shore that it has left behind…

Nov 28, 2010