I was cooling my jets
at the temple of purification
being someone else and
ignoring your never notice
I'm more off white than
the loads of laundry
I fold forgetting
my very beginnings
The map of my world
as un-inventive
as rats on stage~
no mysterious depth
to it and I know
it doesn't do me justice,
but proof can be as
tricky as a trigger finger,
and more selfish than all
the devils secrets

Written by Sara Fielder © Oct 2016

To think that the soft silk pillow
of truth rests inside the lazy chest
It is then the lid of concentrated equilibrium
blows off with the same wind
that cuts the cord of your young yesterdays
and melancholia has permission
to evaporate like ether from life's
mysterious purpose

But I confess, these old brown grocery paper
bag hag hands use to hold a rough picture
of futures promise as if they were only on loan
They'd shave off the barked mahogany
of derelict past generation opinion for
payment into a cult of wire haired sailors who
thought that saying hello was getting too personal
Bilge drunk, disappointed and in denial, begging
the skies wet breath for compass direction
with broken magnetos

But the longer I live, the more I find myself
giving yield to a life that doesn't always
seemed determined by me

Written by Sara Fielder © Feb 2016

it's as nippy as a
Japanese gymnast outside
and I struggle to hide
my disappointment from
anyone watching

autumnal leaves levitate
on puffs of charcoal cold
and I know it won't be
long before the radioactive
compost of winters armor
tests my melatonin mind
with having to wear a
double pair of socks
during the approaching equinox

the front of it's frigid face
pressurizing the nerves and
blackmailing my someday ability
to hear those faraway vocals
of a narcissistic spring

Written by Sara Fielder © Oct 2016