Hannon,
felt superior  to the very nature of all things, and he found a way how to prove it.

“Why staying bound
by humanness,
while I am better
than anyone else”

With his own money,
Hannon bought a flock of birds
and raised them up in a dark place,
very dark place,
teaching them how to sing one song
named “ Hannon is God”,
This is all they’ll sing in the dark.

When Hannon considered
the birds learned the song,
he let them fly free,
believing his own song
“Hannon is God”
would spread everywhere
and would be heard by everyone.

He let them free,
the next moment
the free birds forgot Hannon’s song.

They flew free,
and song their own birdsong
to this day

Use it!
Not to give you what you want,
but free another heart from pain.

Use it!
As an act of selfless blessing of
appreciation only you can transmit.

Use it!
As a reminder to others of how much they are valued,
some of us have been waiting for a long, long time to hear it.

Use it!
With the sincerity of heart,

Turn it!
Into a selfless Offering!

She's in a
self imposed cage.
I can see it in
her eyes;
a demon's hell-fire.
She loathes humanity,
especially men.
Anyone can blame
past circumstances for
how they are currently,
but ultimately,
love unlocks the
door to the
prison of hate.

It's a movie afternoon.  On the
menu today is Stephen King.
Pennywise, gruesome and
gore.  Sit tight the clown
is coming. Up and over,
round and round.  Balloons
rip the fragile air,  Screams
tear through today.

The sewer is full of blood.
The axel-tree is full of mud.
I see it in the look of his
face.  "I'm coming!" is his
insistent cry.

Who's in there now? Go in
and see. I am bound to a
mixture of fear.  Stir me up.
Tap off the movie.  He is
scared even as he writes.

I turn around and see the
clown.  He melts into me.
I only know enough
to run scared.

I am bound for the after-
noon train to Derry.

Caroline Shank

~
"Suspense is like a woman. The more left to the imagination, the more the excitement."
~
A mixture
of sinister and sweet,
smoking gun at your feet.
Reclining dead
in a meadow,
or wishing you were
as you gaze out your window.

Bottling undecided dark,
catching keyed-up light,
in random, misleading angles.
The uniform hour
holds Grace, Grant,
and the mystery
it entangles.

Don't look directly
at the camera,
icy blonde afterimage.
Everything you need
is written on the page.
Number 13,
Mrs. Peabody?
Don't you know
all contemporary
escapist entertainment
begins by turning your back?
Lingering on what
suspicious minds track.

The migrating voyeurism
sits as the crow,
wired and unfriendly.
The method is an organism,
an implication, a crossbow,
thought, but unseen.
He will push the girl,
until you succumb
to dream sequences.
It's snowing humiliation
at Winter's Grace,
for out of the male gaze,
invading your space,
you become gifted
at doing nothing well,
in sheer
under-things,

(for inner circles & triangles of fur
are all the rage in Europe).

Yes, he hates pregnant women,
because then they have children.
So leave him
to his work,
to analyze your handwriting,
and build that ramp
directly into your trailer.

His larger than life silhouette
will fill the silver screen
with tension,
trip wire,
and a ****** ambivalence,
that ends with
the violent sound
of someone
packing a suitcase.

He enters by virtue of this door,
and you leave through another,
and another,
and another,
until the final scene
alters your state of mind.

Your pretty little feet
dangling precariously
over the edge...