raindrops travel
down the pane
no two alike
no path the same

roses blooming
on the heath
are all the same
scent beneath

how alike
and yet diverse
logic rendered
in reverse!

no color
creed
ideology
can make a man
bond or
FREE

let's all move
forward
tho we plod
we're the
manifold
glory
of
a
loving

GOD



Write of Passage aka
Invisible inc aka
SoulSurvivor
(C) 12/29/2015
all rights protected

Bertha stared motionless through the TV.
Thoughts of times past filled her mind...

"Happy birthday, darling! Here you go."
Dad and his appearances. Yep, never fooled me.

He only saw me on my birthdays—normally an hour or two, tops.
A quick ice cream and a gift, then boom, see you next year.

I don't remember Mum and Dad being together; why would I?
I was only a few months old when they split.

Growing up, it was different men all the time coming into the house. Eventually, I came to realize that when they visited, in the next few days that followed, I would be treated to a day out or spoiled rotten with gifts.
Yeah, she was a lady of the night, a Tom, a brass—a *******.

Dad was an ex-client, I found out years later. He died on my 13th birthday—a day I'll never forget.

Mum told me in the morning that Dad had been killed in a car crash.
I didn't know how to feel. I mean, he was just a guy I saw once a year.

That evening, after a cake and a few friends came around for a party, I was alone in the lounge.
There was a tap on the window.
I looked out and saw one of Mum's regular male visitors.

I shouted for Mum. Assuming she was coming, I opened the front door to let him in.

"You're a pretty one," he kept saying to me, complimenting my looks, my dress, my body.

After he violated me, I was once again left alone.

Mum eventually came home; she had popped to the shops, thinking I was here with friends. That's her story—she knew full well they had already left.

They caught the man. He got two years in prison—TWO YEARS. After that, I ate and ate and ate. I craved love and affection but always looked in the wrong places.

Mum died a couple of years ago—drugs, yep.

So, here I am, the last one standing.

Life... oh, what a life.

            -  -  -

Bertha refocused on the TV, releasing a heavy sigh.

She noticed a message flash up on her phone.
It was the boyfriend saying he was on his way round.

Rummaging through her handbag, Bertha grabbed some mascara and lipstick.
A swift makeover followed, then, standing up, she shook herself down and placed a smile upon her face.

The doorbell rang.

"Hello, Babe, you **** *******. Get ya **** in here.."

Rivers and Oceans
Are filled with wonderful beings
we are left awestruck
Lawless trawlers and haulers
wallets plastic and dollars.

The shoreline isn't what it used to be.
It's staggered now; the smoothness has regressed,
and aquamarine ice is stinging the water
like a knife. The room itself is warm,
though stifled with smoke and dust. We go out
in the night and inhale.
The cold smells nice. Where is the moon?
Where are the stars? All I see are city lights to the south,
and an unbreakable darkness in the east.
I miss the sound of moving water,
and I dream of summer.
But how I love these winternights, tucked beneath blankets
and snow. An interval to the dissonance
of a January that is too warm, too dry.
In the early dawn, the sky is periwinkle darkened,
and the waves crash me a song reminiscent of you.

I wish
I had known
it was then
brain-fog
just for a moment
the opportunity
was lost

the right words
I failed to speak
(she was waiting
in such great expectation
with her I lost eye-contact

then she said:
'The wind
is brewing strong
I must leave
in case it were
to break
into a storm'
( a quick glimpse
of her I took
in her eyes
there was a tiny teardrop)-

evening was setting in
into the fading light
she walked
I couldn't find
the words to say-
my heart grievously broke!