You scan the room
eyes meet
smiles are spawned

Blushes shared
sideways glances
embarrassment cascades

The dance has begun
awkward moments multiply
rituals are invoked

Stares become contests
flames of desire kindled
yearning turns to wanting

Time stokes the embers
into uncontrolled heat
that cannot be squelched

Days become longer
nights intolerable
until

That moment
where lips meet
and lust is born

Andreas Simic©

I
Love
The
Colors
And
Smells

Of
Warm
Cinnamon
And
Ground
Beans

Muffins
And
Green
Tea

The rustle
Of
A
Newspaper

The
Quiet
Clicking
Of
Keys

Gives my
Weary
Heart
A
Break

And
A
Safe
Place
To
Be

When I was thirteen,
I was anxious about my obsessive rituals,
Didn't expect that it was Obsessive Compulsive Disorder.
And once you have it, it will never leave you.
Even at night, when I go to bed.
My mind drowns in waves of questions.
Have I washed my hands?
Are these plates clean enough?
Did I close the door?
Have I drank enough water?
It was hard for me,
The repetitions,
The struggle of everything turning into endless cycles          

When I was fourteen, I said,
"Mom? I'm having these kind of rituals."
I said, "Mom? Am I getting better?"
Well, mom thinks it's normal. But it's not.      
Well, I feel something bad and I feel that the world was against me, that the rituals were indeed sempiternal.

When I was fifteen,
My Obsessive Compulsive Disorder had completely risen up to another level.
I feel anxious, I feel bad, I feel that I am slowly sinking into an ocean filled with unspoken mysteries.
And every time, I try not to listen to those voices, those voices seem unable for me to conquer, those voices become higher than my power.

So when I turned sixteen,
I wished the life of a genuinely normal teen.
Obsessive Compulsive Disorder is like a spell, a lifetime spell.
A spell that covers me, that controls me,
a spell with ***** hands that touch my soul.
And yet people think I'm crazy, I'm insane, that I'm hopeless, but the truth is I need help. I need people to stop the judgements and please understand my condition.

Death may come,
to some sweet souls
we know this -
much too quickly
there in a flash,
- in a heightened dash-
perhaps not even sickly,

Oh how that fate-
so mercurial,
it doesn't tell us -
so often why,
as we gaze in daze,
upon our solemn dead,,
an throw our hands up to the sky,
we ask of our dear stars above,
just why'd they have to go an die?

As we are really sad for only just ourselves,
we're just not ready to be done,
so stuck there in our bad goodbye,
still looking for the shining sun,
parting is such sweet sorrow
when it's with the only "one",

To leave the lovely Earth,
a blinking eye,
before to grasp a changing thought,
to look up in a changing sky,
for the answers dearly sought,
or even only wonder why,
it wiped away a life so fast,
and suddenly-
it seems for naught,

Her people they not with her now,
as she lay so broken and forlorn,
until the strangers come to call,
her death-
it was perhaps just a chance to warn,

To expire in a cul-de-sac,
as they circle 'round her now to grieve,
watching as they march as one,
to see the only way -believe,
believe me,
they come to only bid farewell,
not to punish or a bone to cleave,
as the body fails,
gone away - a binding heave,

As a rolling tube of rubber brings
about the ugly severed end,
and a hard black inflated reality,
it comes around the final bend,
barreling down on a tiny female life,
no hand to hold-
not one to lend,
but the birds they came,
with a message we should send,

Harbingers come in the quietus here,
they come to dance in sacred feather,
an some say rare and very strange,
and predictors of the coming weather,

I think that might be true, I do,
but what do circling wild birds
really tell?
circumnavigating the dead of Earth,
while in the sadness do not dwell,
and still I'm sure they are afraid of those tires,
but those fears they only quell,

They circle round to pay respect,
an she an enemy in their eye,
still they only ferry her,
an wish her home
a last goodbye,

A ritual of death and life,
performed before the alter,
a spirit sighs -a soul she dies,
her body could only falter,
death may come,
they fear it - not,
and I believe they still-
believe no hell is hot,

How?
How do these wild wild birds,
understand better than we,
some how?

Ma Cherie© 2017

mating behavior
pushes the limits
forgets boundaries

tall
dark
eyes like a canyon
pulling you into them

hands
length
soothing sounds
vibrations

mating rituals
dances with wolves
edge of the feather
periscope vision

~ rachael hays 9O15