I’m navigating a field of dark something-ness
Sitting quiet in morning air

In these cavities where my soul perceives life, I seek a heightened energy

Laying hidden behind wrinkled skin
tucked tightly into two beds of compact tissue
in this moment they rest purposefully as if sitting behind window curtains

They serve a common purpose when prompted,
To identify objects in this limiting dimensional plane.

Some days when I come here, I wander aimlessly across battle-torn countries of thought
It is essential to let the river take them
Watching them pass as an observer instead of the instigator
Feeling the depth of their sting grow distant

Sinking deeply into the dimension where we live beyond bodies

Where I am a bee pollinating the flower
I am the bird calling out in a resounding plea
I am the wind pushing through bamboo forests

Until breath inhaling and collapsing my cadaver becomes less of a grounding cord
And the mat placed beneath with intention is no longer a chain to the ground

There is now no face to inhabit,
The world; a faint memory of molding

Here the wind isn’t quite invisible
Temperature is not affected by her power
Bearing colors, intentions and tranquility

I let her carry me up and away

a deep slated plume
of hatred for those telling
me what not to do
such a mindful waste

I woke up in the back of a car filled with twilight
a forgotten song played pleasantly on the radio
and the mild moment under the quiet trees
stirred in me the knowledge of the enticing present
I lay there whole and happy
awaiting my family's return

If I am still
I can hear the birds
I can hear the house creaking
As it stretches towards the sun

If I am still
I can see the skin on my hands
The lines
And things they have achieved

If I am still
I can feel my heart beat
I can feel the air moving
On the tiny hairs
In my nose

If I am still
I can feel time slow down
I can look at myself from above
And see how wonderful
I am

I can see
How much wonder
There is

Why won't you answer my calls?
Does the phone ring off the wall
Are you thinking of him
Why do you rock my world...

I know love's a word away
You just need to say you love me
In a letter posted to the heavens
You shake my earth...

Do you think of me with each season
They'll keep changing
And we won't meet
But, I know we will have changed.

So, move on.

Having been referred to on multiple occasions as being “depressed”, I am offended. Every time. Having a chronically macabre state of mind and being drawn to a melancholy atmosphere and writing does not make one depressed. Or a psychopath. It does not mean a person is on a journey to being a serial killer or committing suicide. Some people, such as myself, just happen to find comfort in things deep and meaningful. While some comedy, joy, and love is to be revered and enjoyed more sparingly the sad, twisted, and horrid truths of the world can uphold a better sense of completion, joy, and love. This does not make one depressed or mentally ill but perhaps just more...... thoughtful.

She who lives in accordance to nature unfolding is an entity who governs with equity,
Embracing the beauties of organic origins she preserves life's virtue,
Holistically embodying the spirit of now she carries an impartial tranquility,
Restoring balance towards fickle fabrications many are led to believe.