It's the feeling of still air
of despair--
how it creeps
up
to chill her tongue
and paralyze her legs
into a coma-
tosed state
of routine and a life
lost its shimmer

There's nothing to sparkle,
(no sun to illuminate)
anything
under her covers
and she can't feel
any
warmth
because she is stagnant there,
even past the suns peak
and into the dead
of night

She is stagnant there--
somewhere
where sadness calls her sweet
name.

Thrive  --  they say
Be alive   --   they say
but then I wake up everyday
to a dying world
filled with so much pain?
This wasn't part of the plan.

and when will we come to understand:
It's all gone;
sand dropped straight out
from our parted fingertips of ignorance

and we're clutching
at something
that holds little-to-no mass
or structure
for the masses

All the grains are
settling now
at the bottom of the
hourglass;
we've seen it all,
wiped out every
beautiful species
with a tusk to make
furniture
and brought back
the ones
that died before
our time, regardless to how the
course of nature was
designed..

The hourglass
is filled with dust
(to the brim)
I'm afraid
flipping it over to
allow for more time
won't work
any longer--
There is no more room
to linger

Thrive  --  they say.

thriving
conniving
climbing
destroying

"They" can't speak.
"They" no longer exist.

to the innocent ways
you used to utter my name

and grabbed my hand
to guide me through
the tight-packed
ocean of faces
swimming for fingers
and grasped in trances

:

so simply when I look back
to the days of
no confusion
recorded--briefly behind
the lens of my vision

I am knocked off my feet
by the beauty
of the feat
of our garden

*flowers

            etch

the lines of your

eyes      
      
            behind

the bridge--you'll find

The key lies

          within the roots--

to disguise                    

the crime

of feeling deep

                 inside

confide

                  in the deaf

       ears

of the unspoken word--

to hear

     your silence

as it Cries

It
feels good
to not levitate
beneath your "broad,
wise"
wings. Where the weight
of the world--
or who won the
argument--
while missing parents
canoodled their partners
or pole dancing classes
swept them from their
normal floors;
and kids
fought with sticks
and warpaint
for fun;
until it was war
and the kids
battled kitchen
knives
on the
floor
and the weight
of the blame
fell to the
little girl
who stood watching
from a safe distance
while her
two best friends
fought over tator tots.
{whose side would she
take?}

Those tator tots sadly evolved
into **** packs
and late night robberies
& unfortunately the
kids on the block
become thieves--
and the weight
of this economy
this system dancing
on the knapsacks
{as the kids ransack
and abandon for dead}
on the briefcases
{as the adult clones
corrupt til dead}

And it
feels good
to not hover
beneath the
view
of chemical dusted skies and factory worked
feathers.*

There is a world
in the sky
where none of this
has happened--
It's a place where humans
don't exist--
{where we cant crush the earth
with our weighted machines}