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I want a life of quiet wildness.
A soul roaming free
in a forest
made for me.
The steady
drop
drop
drop
of rain landing on each leaf.

Ive been running through the green in my mind,
while walking through the day to day.


A safe haven of feral peace where I listen to a loud world through the ears of a quiet spirit is what I require.


The world seems to be getting noisier,
but the untamed parts seem to be vanishing.


Like entropy,  
is the beautiful chaos seeping out of the world...


...or out of me?
My God drew glittering
diamonds across the turquoise
plane , amber sunlit shallows
beside lapping banks ,
leaves of every color sailed her
silver waves , windswept memories to cherish
the remainder of my days* ...
Copyright March 19 , 2017 by Randolph L Wilson * All Rights Reserved
 Mar 2017 Aylin Belrose
KA
The Truth
 Mar 2017 Aylin Belrose
KA
That slippery thing called The Truth.
Who’s truth you ask?
Your truth or mine?
That slippery of slippery Jester.
The one that hides in your bedside table?
The one that you delete?
The one you post?
Your feeling well hidden or the ones that you show.
The slight smile is the truth maybe?
Maybe the meaning behind your intention is the truth.
Or is it the sunshine and the blue sky?
The truth lies somewhere between a touch of a hand, an honest question with an honest intention.
Love without expectation is perhaps the truth.
With that, there is no attachment or deceit of any kind.
Its the truth that one wears whether seen or hidden hugging the
curves.
Its yours.
I am a broken man
Broken beyond repair
Fallen deep into despair
Torched to ash like a straw man

I am a broken man
Crushed into fine shiny powder
Fragments of a ruined wonder
Now feeling empty like the Morrigan

Tempted to take the Scythe for the Hammer
I chained myself in desperation
A fools decision for a reparation
Death in turn I hunger

For life is a sweet ardor
The bitter sweet taste of reconnaissance
The salt and spice of resilience
'Tis what a broken man yearns with fervor
I found this on one of my unfinished manuscripts
I wish I could finish it  but it is too much to handle
Here is one of the excerpts from one characters banter with another
It is what he said while crying in front of his love the miseries of life, yet he still wanted to feel what it felt like in his earlier times.
I'll leave it open for interpretation
Let me know what you think
Happy Birthday sis. Oh, how fast time has flown,
I remembered the day I first saw you, a precious baby girl in my arms,
How can this be from you being a tiny baby to a woman who has fully grown,
For you melted everyone’s hearts with those cute baby charms.

Slowly you were blooming in your childhood years,
To the gorgeous flower that you are, and I loved the way you have blossomed,
To be there in your life, from the start and seeing you transform day by day gave me tears.
As your big brother, to have experienced having a sister like you, my life has been amazing, you are funny as well as you are smart you are awesome.

Happy Twenty First Birthday. Congratulations on this special year you have a big future ahead of you. So many things to see and do; new challenges and new faces are out there waiting you to overcome and to meet. I welcome you to adulthood, for you have surely grown from a child to a beautiful woman. I wish this day for you to be filled with happiness and love. You deserve it. HAPPY BIRTHDAY
**Jacob Cuadro
 Mar 2017 Aylin Belrose
Kim Lang
I watched the sun rise
Bringing light to my past mistakes
Nothing to hide behind
My soul open for onlookers
I ******* shame
And I pray for nightfall
There's a gypsy in the heart of me,
that wants to run the road;
a vagabond is lurking there,
to the fields, my heart's been sold.
There's a restless soul that's yearning,
to wonder at the wild;
a carefree, urging spirit,
of an enchanted child.
There's a ***** inside my blood,
that never will be still;
to hear and see all nature,
until I've had my fill.
There's a traveler in my mind,
who hears the seashore's song;
to walk along the beaches,
to escape the cities throng.
There's a gypsy in my musings,
that clamors for the highway;
ever searching, ever seeking,
an endless, nameless byway.
Nine years and still
we cradle our grief
carefully close,
like groceries
in paper bags.

Eventually the milk
will make its way
into the refrigerator;
the canned goods
will find their home
on pantry shelves.

Most things find
their proper place.

Eventually the hummingbirds
will ricochet against scorched air,
their delicate beaks stabbing
like needles into the feeder filled
with red nectar on the back porch.

Eventually our child
will make her way
back to us. Perhaps.

But I’ve heard
that shooting
****** feels
like being
buried under
an avalanche
of cotton *****.

For now it’s another
week, another month,
another trip to Safeway.

We drive home and wonder
why it is always snowing.
Behind a curtain of snow,
brake lights pulse, turning
the color of cotton candy,
dissolving into ghosts.

And with each turn,
the groceries shift
in the seat behind us.
From the spot where
our daughter used to sit,
there is a rustling sound—

a murmur of words
crossed off yet another list,
a language we’ve budgeted
for but cannot afford to hear.
The old man mumbles in a dying voice
had my sons been alive.

A tear wells in the daughter's eyes.

She pours a spoon of water in his mouth
and wipes his lips and her eyes.

Having lit the pyre of his three sons
he was willing to barter his daughter's life
if that made God grant him another son
and here is the daughter by his bedside
feeding, cleaning and even shaving him
her only prayer to God being to save his life
bartering her entire means.

Outside the thunder cracks the sky
and she spreads a tarpaulin over the bed.

my son laments the father.

Inside her is no cover for rain.
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