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Are all our words
enchanting works
of witches--
We wield them into submission
while we drink
from others'
intoxicating feasts
of fruits;
blood, sweat, tears from the gloom
And words hidden in remission?
FULL DISCLOSURE: I am not a witch, nor am I really saying we are, but I hope you get the concept behind it?! If there is a better word, please share.
Her profile dared
the precipice of
the ages, with the
most vulnerable
contemplation.
One could see a
rain of saintly
hands touching her
shoulders.
As if to ask: are you
okay..?
Time stands still
So high up
I, too
Stand still

Still, like an old book on a shelf
Having spent years longing for use
Watching the world go by
While I remain unchanged
Glued to this shelf
Immovable
A testament to my patience
Or perhaps my naivety
Naive enough to believe it’ll end
Naive enough to hope

These hands feel nothing
Unfamiliar in nature
Alien
And I
Still book on a shelf
Ragged
Worn
Crumpled in all the wrong places
Tearing at the seams
Crafted from different materials

But built similar
By a familiar something
Close enough to normal
But not normal enough to be close
Close to those who I love
And those who love me

Solitary
Esoteric
Safely tucked away
But forever alone
Forever stuck
Here on this shelf
Where everything changes
But me
When she was quiet
I wept
To ward off the silence

When she screamed
I withdrew
So as not to disturb the sound
If my heart could speak then what would it say would it answer the question I ask it each day would it  confirm to me what I know to be true that I was not alive until I laid my eyes on my beautiful children would it explain all things but especially this why I became hopelessly lost in my children's eyes would it tell me that I had been traveling through lonely oceans of time before I found my children would it tell me the reason I carry a flame that will only ignite to the sounds of my children's name's would it explain to me how they light up my day and warm up my night with all that they say or would it simply confirm what I know to be true that it and  I are in love with my children
My average means I don’t have to take final exams.
So my bachelor's degree is a finished product.
I cranked it out, all that’s left now is the walk (May 18th).
Let’s call it my nearly forgotten masterpiece.
My schedule says that I start a 1-year ‘master of public health’ degree in 38 days.

It was my mom’s idea. She said, “You need to keep active” (pre- med-school).
It sounds crazier to me now than it did last year, when I was accepted and agreed.
Now, I feel like some chary, aging showgirl who’s about to be hustled back on-stage.
But what’s life without massive compromise?
Anyway, don’t cry for me. I’m still sizing it all up, I’ll figure it out.

I suppose we’re all out there hustling.
It’s our response to slowing med-school admissions,
those glitches in the medical, industrial education complex
or that’s how the narrative’s shaped, anyway.
It’s not the additional work that bothers me, I’m regular worker bee,

It’s the perma-threat of loneliness.
I’m already packing. Leaving feels real
and I'm surfing this maudlin wave tonight—shading deep blue.
The simple march of time will take away friends I’ve grown to love.
We’ve allegorised and transformed one another by proximity.

I’ve really loved it here.
.
.
Songs for this:
Graduation (Friends Forever) by Vitamin C
Graduation Day by Tony Rivers & The Castaways
BLT Merriam Webster word of the day challenge 04/10/25:
Chary = someone who’s cautious about doing something.
I'm not sure I'd call it fun for it often has me undone but I'm a writer
I could bite off my own tongue and still my silence would be sung through pen and paper
1000 stories in my mind if I could only find the time to speak my truth
This is not a simple ryhme listen as it takes hold, blossoms and explodes
This is my proof
But my words come tumbling out
spilling jumbled from my mouth in perfect chaos
I sift through the disorder
As I struggle against the borders that contain me
One day I'll find the words to explain how I see

Lost in their own message hidden among the wreckage is the importance of all the lies unknown to you

My mind interrupts my day whenever it has something to say and I can't fight it
How we never relent believing
     even in the clutches of doubt!
    
How we withold living
     -without the hues of dreaming  
     -and the nurturing arms of loving,
      both nursing suffering into healing!

How we move the quill to see more,
     and more to love what is essential in things,
     -even the things that fall and crumble
     amidst the ravenous roar and the rampant rumble!

How we defy the Frantic Fret of a hollering sky
     with a hued cry hovering over this raucous choir!

19/04/2025
Hirondelle
A dutiful reaction to Patty m on her 'Frantic', whose vibrant voice has ever been well carried above all tumult and thunder cajoling many fellow poets.

Inspired by Friedrich Nietzsche's Amor Fati: "I want to learn more and more to see as beautiful what is necessary in things; then I shall be one of those who makes things beautiful. Amor Fati: let that be my love henceforth! I do not want to wage war against what is ugly.”

The more we write, the more we learn about the hodgepodge ensemble and discover a voice within; then, the less we start despairing and the more we begin to love. Thus, we raise our voices above the cacophony.

How our ink strikes to and fro;
Above dark skies wielding light,
no one is alone!
I love Easter
It like a more honest Christmas
A few months stumbling
To really what what's life is
To take the glory
Then run?
Or take the deal
Already spun?
The Apostles
All dealt in their own way
Wether the 30 bits of silver
Or Crucified upside down to deliver
The affirmation
Of the light
The truth
And the way.
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