Propellers ripped through the morning air. —Destroying the peaceful solitude. The yet conscious hikers stare on, unaware or uncaring of the violence unfolding. Circling like vultures, the shots rang out…Do it for good or do it for gold. Do it for likes or do it for strife…. —Each one howled and growled, yipped and they yapped, even the pups tried to keep up….—A lone soul listed with intent, just two hours before—— before they came, and took more than lives…
——but they also gave, they gave us this poem to read,  and a  lesson to teach….and a wish to one day live in harmony…

The year I almost drowned
was the year I learned to swim.
I was weighed down pound by pound
and things were looking grim.
My arms flailing; began to tire
and my mouth was tasting salt,
just days ago I warmed myself by fire
and by lying on the asphalt.

Shadow stalks and kicking rocks;
irrelevant if your shoes are tied.
Checking locks and kicking rocks
get carried away by the tide.

The year I almost drowned
was the year I learned to swim.
I could view the sandy ground,
though the image was quite dim.
My head; just barely above the water
and desperately I was gasping for air,
and I could swear it was getting hotter
but the temperature was actually fair.

I’ve got currents and tides
within my mind.
And when I finally rip out my insides;
more water and waves you’ll find.

The year I almost drowned
was the year I learned to swim.
While being tossed and pushed around
I discovered I had every limb.
I could see a shoreline in the distance
it’s beaches with perfect white sand.
It seemed within an instance
I started treading steadily with each hand.

Maiden in the ashes
Robed in silk
Robbed of milk
No mark on your tender skin
No sign of turmoil within
The coal does not yet scorch your soul
...
You walk your delicate path
Bearing the sightly, brightly beaten cut bloom of spring
Luscious petals not yet knowing
They will drop from the stem
No seeds to plant, and not her fault
the only water here tainted with salt
And the ground here is hard, turned up in its roots
And the soft garden bed tamped down by boots
Do you know the path you tread does not want you?
Do you not yet feel the cut of the stone or burning of the coal to your sole?
Or does this black earth need your bloodstained steps as much as you need to bleed them
Is it possible for one woman's blood to nourish this dead soil back to life?
And one woman's love to seed them

If It works, it can

be satisfying to glue --


something together.

I have a store full
of old things, it is difficult
to ensure

that they are not sold
to snobs with no idea
of their real value

without the slightest idea
that it cannot be expressed
in their money

only in tax money, annually
to be collected for maintenance
and everything that comes with it

to have the works viewed
by those who are interested
and that can be anyone

which is hard to accept
for barbarians who get rich
from constant replacement

It's all very overwhelming.


It's like an acid trip.


There are a lot of colors. There are a lot of sounds.


There's a certain serenity in that trip state.


There's too much happening.


Focus on the colors. Focus on the sounds.


What about my rationale?


Let the waves roll over you.


This is too much.

Give in.

No. I have to keep going.

Focus on the vibration of your essence.

I can't handle this.
I have to shut down.
I have to preserve.

Go numb.
Prioritize Preservation.

Your hate
I need that
Your emasculation
Fulfils me
Your unaccountabilty
Don't worry I'm responsible
That ***
I'm going to kiss that
That knife in my back
It's all good I can heal
Your pain and struggles
Blame it all on me