We are the Children of the Sun,
Sister to Moon,
unyielding to none

Rushing gracefully to outrun
the warring tug of our orbit
brutish and unrelenting
naught to be forsaken

We are tokens of synergy
an Ocean of Energy
flaring flames of Inferno
waiting, imminently
we promenade 'cross spaceous sea
to engulf the fragile faun in flight
Hell hath no other to share this night

We are the dark and undetected
electrically affected
magnetic resonance of the One.

*~ forever we will be the Children of the Sun ~

Who can be sadder than
an unfinished poem?

show, don't tell

Recovery is like a closed wound
That keeps reopening.
Sometimes it doesn't hurt
Sometimes it stops aching
Sometimes it blends into the skin in such a way
That you forget it's there.

Other days
It itches and stings
And you keep picking
Until you rip the scab off completely
The blood covers you
You become trapped by this illness
You are smothered.

Eating disorders are open wounds
That heal over time
But the mark leaves a scar
That is there forever.

So I cannot say I was bulimic
And frankly, I wasn't a very good one
But I am a bulimic
At peace one day
In raging battle zones the next.

The important part
Is that the shot never fires
The enemy never wins
The wound never stays
Open.