The witch raced the sun,
sculpting the clay into a paradox of herself,
and she could not stop until the day was done.


Blood, sweat, and tears flew,
as she made, and remade,
each limb and feature, into something new.


Her nose was long and crooked
So she made his short:
No, shorter.
Even shorter, and stern, too.


Her twisted, unsteady hands
worked the clay to make skin and sinew.
And she used her essence to make him real,
before the day was due.


Blood to give him life and color.
Sweat to give him a musty odor.
Tears to give him human emotion.
Steady hands and feet to give him motion.


And when the shadows began reaching for her at near the end of light,
She knew at last, it was time to give him her sight.


She sat back.
Looked one last time at her craft,
Stared where his eyes should be at,
and spat.


Blood rushed to his face,
Sweat beaded at his brow,
Tears streamed down his cheeks
As his heart began to pound.


Short and stern was his nose.
Untwisted and steady were his hands and feet
as he clenched his fingers and toes.


The residue of saliva was sticking to his eyelids,
So he wiped it away.


When he looked, there she lay,
Shriveled by her effort,
Dead in her unspecified grave.


The witch raced til night,
to give him her purpose, her life, and her sight.
And yet in limbs and features, they were nothing alike.
He was exactly her paradox
with only one thing in mind:


First, to clean up her mess,
Then, to sculpt the clay
into a form to paradox himself
Until the dawn of day.

These days bleed me out slowly;
skin hugging my bones closely,
and at night I dream solely,
of you.

Gaping wounds are still open;
my blood is being stolen,
and my heart's wings are broken,
while yours are new.

Your spirit grew inflated,
while mine shrank and deflated,
lacking air, like a flaccid
balloon.

Each betrayal sits with me on my shoulder.
It whispers its toxic shame into my ear,

Thin frame, frail mind, and heart light as a feather.
I slowly come to accept that death is near

My mind blocks the memory of you,
Without my meaning it to.
Subconscious defenses
protect me from feeling pain,
But after each wheel you slashed
from my racing heart,
I know I am not the same.

I feel like a hollow tree that holds it's shape but is dead within,
An outward appearance to keep and maintain,
While other creatures inhabit my skin

I don't know who I am anymore. And if I tried to reclaim a chance at life, I don't think I would win.

Ivy sprouts from the ground
fertilized by human decay.

Eyes grow, and the plants see,
legs ripen, and the greenery
walks among us.

Carnivorous, they feed
on strictly human meat.
They are Nature's punishment
for humanity's destructive greed,

But they are also Her salvation
and grounds to plant new seeds,
which promises the future
a second chance to breed, hopefully,
life that lives wholly for the benefit of Earth and Sea.

There is no love for me in here. When I peer my Eye inside all I find are empty spaces.
I never hoped for this outcome,
but sometimes (frequently, often), I find myself with only one option.
My Spirit is frail and exhausted, but it is not for that reason that this is the path I have chosen (accepted).

It is because I am an organism that cannot control my heart's bitter intent to hurt those who have hurt me.

Knowing what is to come, selfish undeserved tears drift over the crevices of my well-rounded cheeks.
And it is the spark of that selfishness that has allowed me to see: I should not exist.

Not if I have allowed something cold and dark that chases desire to settle within my chest.
Not if my intent cannot remain pure and always for the positive growth and development of the World rather than the ego.
When mine was tested and tried, it proved not to.

Because the pieces of me that fought so long and hard for a worthless cause have lost their flame, I will feel nothing until the end.

The ensemble plucked their violins,
blew their clarinets,
and struck their triangles at opportune times.

The music vibrated throughout the theatre,
winding between the pews and pillars
to reach the ear of every soul present.

The seats hummed to the deep strums of the cellos,
every pitch of the clarinets bounced from the decorated walls:
the sound encompassed the great room.

The stage was gracefully lit to expose each musician at work.
Amid the soft yellow lights were figures robotic men,
slave to the script that they no doubt strained for hours to learn.
As for their appearance, they wore matching white,
curly powdered hair wigs.
Looking akin to the hair on George Washington's head!

But despite the rather humorous display, none could argue
that the music that splayed from their steady hands
was anything short of exquisite.

Well...except for my dear old Aunt Floyd.

"Awfully quiet in here," she exclaimed.