Black 5,
Phone dead.
No lines,
Whispering winds.
Kittens on the table,
The world still spins.
Black 5,
Phone dead.

Hello Despair, my constant companion,
threatening my stride, corrupting any confidence,
insulting my intelligence, forbidding me to improve,
denouncing me as unworthy, I recognize you.

I'll not let you win, even when you bear more strength,
fighting till the death, mine or yours.
I resist your name for me,
old age coming, colorless shape,
forgotten something,
needless.

Under your heavy core that masses like lead,
I'll wimper with a finale breath,
even when there is no one left to believe, remember, or hear,
I will fight against you.

An apron, blueish, A line
Dress
Long grown, brunette, wave riddled
Locks
Cream fresh, egg shell, porcelain
Skin

Not all life is a state of euphoric bliss.
there is ache within many moments.
Reason with our lives,
convincing ourselves of our peace,
our quest, reaching, working, Tapas on.

Surrendering when exhausted,
our last struggle undone,
crying like children
because we have no recourse
from the power of God.

Whether we move or stand
his breath stokes our fires,
soothing our tears,
cradling our age.

The days wear us down,
the unresolved wish
inhabiting every moment
until we relinquish our grasp
around ourselves
and offer our lives up in a prayer.

Pleasure is for the beautiful,
while with ease of face and blessed body
they float, flow, slink, and slow grace.

Puritan rigor and worked hands
for comely folk.
Thick of stock in legs and waist,
face puffed, fattened cheeks, folding in upon itself.
Grown into a gross excuse
fitted only for hard labor.
Barely surviving.

All stays quiet around this room
save for the clanking of an architect
below, carving out a plate for noodles.

The sun sets now,
our day finishing up
after this sullen Sunday
wraps up it's show.

On our street outside today
the hiss of large brakes,
a grind of a chipper
cutting into our damp October forest
knock at each fading minute of the rest of the day.

The dry heat of summer leaves out the back.
Gone for the year.
Wild fires rest.
We gather wood again,
bringing the flames inside at night,
drying out October's rain.

I say, "tell your story!"
No matter how many times it's been heard
Refuse the critics dogeared comments
about broken records,
get out of your rut,
let it go.

Our story is our pleasure
our experience of breath
Lived despite the presence
or non-presance of tragic moments.

Cut foot
bad catch
wrong number
missed bus

small instances of life:
lost job
low pay
Lonely Sundays
no friends.

Let me know, tell me each minute.
Share.