like that pill bitter Sunday morning (after)
with a nauseating hack
the previously uneventful Tuesday
derailed
in surrealistic tale
with Auntie and Jack (and a quarter of fate)
in the 748
on a night flight
from Sherwood to Lore

reverberating waves
of imminent summer haze
river flats
and flower fields
fly weights
and silver bait
shredders and shysters
and open gates
(into those everlasting
and sweated journeys of hope)

bloods and strays
and florentine grays
(reminiscent of Rockwell fame)
running horses
and overgrown country lanes
morning grace
and gentle cheer
eyes clear
on the river pass
blunted paddles for those ancient
and not so willing suckers!

duke making his own way
(to the corner club)
Parsons and Poe
stream from the torn screen door
cricket cadence
and symphony of the Deere
calm and deliberate
in the soft
and silent fields

meadows open for grazing
(guineas scamper across the till)
pocket apples fill
the country ripe air
drunken bees
and chestnuts
and electric fingers
strike the surface pool
(a cedar strip wedged on the white wash dock)

baited bull heads set to cast
evenings with hearts
and Nolten Nash
may flowers bloom
across the grass
~ time unmatched ~
with blue jays
and river bends
and channel cats
...and that warm
and recurring
Coleman drift

to suffer like this is hardship enough
feel yourself drift away
torn from, the present
hurtling back into a memory
or the horrendous new construction of something dark that preys upon my mind
please don't leave me here
keep me close
tell me stories
keep me close
honour this bond
keep me close
I haven't lost my mind it just goes offline sometimes

@journeyofdays

If a picture is worth
a thousand words,
is a memory worth
a million?

I am rich in words.

If I could go back
I would

My flashbacks
1. When we met
2. When we laughed
3. When we joked
4. When you asked
5. When I said yes
6. When we fought
7. Our happiness For each other

With my hands tied tight and cruelly behind my back,
And my ankles strapped to the cold metal of a chair
I think of myself as a witch tied to a stake,
Waiting for judgment.
The same shame.
The same confusion for my crimes.
The same knowing that punishment will be dealt,
No matter the case.

I'm crying in the dark, trying to scream through the tape,
But no one can hear you when the door's closed.

I should have known then,
When he locked me away,
That none of this was normal
And I should have run.

And when I heard footsteps,
My voice caught in my throat.
I remember thinking
He's going to come back and he's going to ruin me worse than before.

And in the darkness I saw nothing,
But the pitter patter of the rain on the roof and within the gutters
Of the theatre.

And I remember the light spilling into the room,
When the door was pulled open,
And seeing the face of a friend I can no longer bring myself to speak to.

And I remember him tearing the tape from my wrists and ankles
And trying to lift me back up
When I fell to the ground in broken sobs.

He rushed me to to his girlfriend,
And I cried in her arms as she and the nurse
Tried to find out the severity of my bruises,
And if anything worse had happened.

I couldn't participate in gym class for a week,
But I was out longer,
Because I didn't want to change in front of the other girls
And let them see the bruises on my hips,
Thighs,
Abdomen,
And everywhere else.

Do not tell me I asked for it.
Do not ask me what I was wearing.
Do not tell me
I should have done this or done that.

I know what mistakes I made and what mistakes I didn't make.

That wasn't the first time
Nor was it the last.

I remember the shame
Burning beneath my flesh
In my therapists office
When he asked what I was wearing
That night.
And what was I supposed to say?

"Sorry sir, you obviously can't do your job. Have a nice night."

Is what I left that office with.

And I remember bleeding,
And I remember wanting to do violent things
And seek vengeance upon him.

But it'll be six years tomorrow
Since the first time that happened to me,
And I don't think I can keep living with wanting him dead.

My skin still burns with shame,
And I sometimes still revert back,
To the witch being burned at the stake.

O' music box,
With many strings,
Why imprison me?
Why cast your blades across the steely sky?
I must away, but you force me to stay.

When I was a boy, I saw unleashed upon you,
With my young eyes,
A proud disease.

My friend was sick; I could not heal him,
So all I could was smash and bash him.
He would not die, I did not cry,
For I was lost to my own music making box.

"Father, what is this gift? A toy?"
Asked I the living wandering boy.
"How does it work?"
Like death, my youngest self should have foreseen.