In my journey I have not decided
If walking in blinding light is better than wandering in the blackest night.
I give darkness such negitve continuity, no fault of my own, societal programming, when I am feeling lost.
And
Yet I can't even move to feel my way in the brightest of light that stings and attempts to eat at my eye lids through the crevices of my fingers.
So
Which is the better?  
To wander in the dark associated with loneliness, helplessness, cover, or protection
Or
Feeling around in the light  associated with bravery, certainity, vulnerably, or exposure?
Somehow I seem to have slipped onto a ship without anyone at the helm and I,
Neutral
I neither give a here nor there on which to decide
Only
More so which one bares more of a case on better returns.

Peacocks on HP  .  .  .
Are not birds, yet dinosaurs,
Wingless beneath earth.

A father is a tree.
He is sappy at times,
And once distilled,
He's sweet.
He radiates limbs
To provide shelter
And shade from harm;
His roots are deep
And nourishing.
He is oak and willow,
Fruitful and sharing.
But most of all,
He hugs like bark.

Spirits are demons,
It's alluringly clear;
Cordial at first,
With smiles
Cloaking sneers.
Devils in bottles
Of liquor and beer.

There's a sleeping giant
On the floor,
Snoring, blocking
All the doors.
I tip-toe 'round the
Massy bulk,
Lest he wake up hungry,
And I'm the morsel
He first sees.
There's a pillow 'neath
His massive head,
The mirror fogs,
So he's not dead.
He sleeps, yawns,
Grinds yellow teeth,
Flutters eyelids,
Causing grief.
Smoke exhales
As he breathes
Through his nose,
Which makes him sneeze
And stretch his limbs,
Then he rolls over
On his chin
To expose his naked neck.
I should grab
A shiny axe
And give that giant
One clean whack,
Put his head in a gunney sack
And bury it in the garden,
Between the rows of corn,
To fester for the worms.
I'd take the body
To the lake,
Weigh it down
And let it sink.
Then we children
Would sleep well,
The sleeping giant
Sleeps in hell.

Proud I was with my shoveling,
Moving snow to the end of the drive,
Lifing loads, shovelling high.
The armlifts created pyramids,
I was as proud as Pharoh coud be.
These pyramids
Could well entomb me.