You wouldn't believe me
even if I told the truth.
You wouldn't see a darkness
in my soul which you have
painted as light, as pure.

My role is that of an
innocent woman,
that of one with mild
tendencies,
that of one with
of stinging words,
and deliberate opinions.

No one ever sees
how dark I am.
They see the flux of
light that I have to offer.

They don't know the secrets
which I keep.
I'm too kind, I'm too simple,
I'm too sweet, but that's my
stellar performance on stage.
It's where I take my blossoming
breaths, where I indulge
myself in act one,
enabling myself a
break before act two
and before
the grand finale.

It never ends, for the
dramatic monologue
is of a continuous cycle of both
expectations and mildness that
I uphold.

Darkness. It's there.
You just don't see it.
No one sees it with
people like us.

The most innocent hide
the most complex secrets,
The most innocent hide
the darkest secrets, but
no one sees them until it's
too late.

Reductions in visibility
snow clawing at your eyes

iceburn memory

we moan in blizzards,
whisper to desert moons

mahogany lips
  turning us  irate.

Mesmerize,  

blast,
        
  invigorate broken cores

****** doubt

invert its position

invoke luminescent lexicon

scrawled out boldly

in       juggernaut  gales

from the interior palace

  of your plush,

introverted launch.

I saw a storm
brewing
I could have
easily stepped
over it

But the raging winds
the piercing rains
and you
were just too irrisitable
and the calm I was in
was too
stable

Muteness creates sounds, warning perils
as hyenas shrewdly approach shelters,
expressing needs of thirst and hunger
when lands run dry and fruits perish,

chanting instincts sparked by seasons
eliciting mating overtures inspired,
drawing pictures on cave walls
to indelibly report, leave a legacy

of human exploits, enduring struggles,
nascent cultures and traditions,
storytelling striving to be faithful
to a truth the only known, evolving

to engender words made of letters
placed in devised orders to confess
thoughts and feelings, exchange concepts
and ideas, bring minds closer to reflect

upon the myriad marvels of a world yet
to be discovered. Eclipses. Crafting caravels
designing maps, recording wonders
encountered in search of an end, a limit

where it all began, keeping Captain’s log
fearing the monsters of the unknown,
tornados and typhoons a presage
of death inducing mortals to call

for mercy upon immortal gods,
fantastically explaining what reason is unable
to decipher. Singing songs to raise moral
until bashing locutions begin to bless

far more than slaps and blades, hanging ropes,
lightning and storms, using them to hurt
with intentions turned malicious, ingenious
communicative talents drowning

in oceans of wickedness and shame, leading
man to regret to have ever invented words
in the first place, leaving me with just one
sound of indwelling grief, a sigh, succumbing

tuning back to muteness.

Nothing is something,
everything.

The world hangs on
hollowness.
Dive into the river.
Which path
you have to cross?

Candles pray
through the space.
The concerns of leaves
Are replied though the same.

Mud is here.
So are we.
Nothing is something,
everything.