There she was.
In hiding.
Too hurt to face others.
Shattered.
The world around her fell apart.
Darkness.
God where are you?

She felt something inside.
Besides all this ugliness something else was happening.
She felt the need to live, to survive.
The light was within.
A melody in her head.
A song in her heart.
Seeping through the cracks of sorrows.
Reaching her core.

She was praying.
God, give me strength to love and trust again.
This world seems so unfair.
But am I not born for a reason?
A warm glow from within gave her light to see.
She saw handles to hold on to.
To find her way out.
And she bloomed.
Like a violet in the dark growing to the light.


People are like flowers
All in need of light and water
To bloom.



Shell✨🐚

We are dreaming—
you and I,
and perhaps she, maybe he.

Thinking that blissful encounter
has taken place,
shaping us like a sweet
and gentle morning breeze

Never again will any rejection
cause pain,
because that appointment
has taken place.

Blessed are those who have met
and blessed are those who
still wait,
in the state of sweet elevation.

painted black, white and
yellow. In a struggle with
herself. Hunting for her next
meal, scraping by on scraps of

bones and *** appeal. Not a lap to
lay her head or a four-post queen
size bed. Ears sticking out
like pegs, not the type that humps

men's legs. Scouring the scene,
hungry and lean. Living life on
razor's edge. She cannot be
domesticated. Her eyes are wide,

pupils dilated. Likes the chase,
grassland and plains, the open
space. Wind whipping like cream through
tangled hair, danger lurking in the air.

The
tilt of my seesaw
is decidedly downward facing dog:

and there’s no rush to judgment,
for the powers that be,
be delighted by slow-walking,
making the waiting
max-tortuous,
but am of an age when everything,
even the long buried sins and unkept promises, poke and **** nonstop,
and the formulae once  relied upon
to ease incipient self-deception,
to temporize and salve the consternations

of unkempt aggravated remorse failures,

as aged misdemeanors be matured felonies,
I blurt and declare guilt to all, alas,
and yet,
always an
and yet
in the ultimate crushing of
tardiness, knotted by an indignity of silence,


no one is desirous
of taking my
confession

5:10pm
Thu Jan 28
2023

I have not been what I should
Nor done the things I clearly could
I did not try to grasp the nettle
Instead stared blank into the kettle
Which of course did not boil
Still water with no hint of roil
I was and were and that still more
A passive shadow at your door
That would not knock
For fear of answer
A fool who would not take his chances
Deported to the moon
To forever sit
Infinitesimally
Buried
In
Regolith.