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your poem read,
awoken by lightening flashes of
morning notifications arriving,
postmarked from
"I liked it"

but it does not
end there,
continues,
to a new ending

who and why,
who and why,
did this one find
their own
worthy in it
that was writ unknowingly
just for them

and
you look them up,
guessing
who and why,
rereading your hand's work,
which verse was it,
was it for a blessing or a
curse,
that touched them,
that made them
touch
you

each "like,"
a work in itself

re examined,
re searched,
re imagined
in the
light of
who they are
and
why they are
liking words I wrote

a single poem
bring hours of imagination,
each "like"
individually gift wrapped,
each human liking rapt,
each imagine a rapture,

each "like"
a new poem
about the who and why
each name a disguise to unravel,
each name a title
of a new different,
imagined poem,
who and why,
we
like
each other

~~~
6:53am
Letters not sent
Words untouched by hands,
There is no softer gaze,
Opening radiant ways
With rapid pulse of breaths,
In spoken sentences.
The invisible margin of lost attention.

I saw unsettling light,
The sun glinting on the window,
An ordinary building across the street
And an elusive, surreal reflection
Of a blurred sphere, not giving warmth.

I stare at this distorted image,
Wanting to endure it directly,
Longer than I could bear,
In a motionless pause
The side effects of this manifestation.

My eyes were slightly closed
To hug the contours of an unclear shape.
The luminosity from a distance
Safely stays at a fragile layer,
So as not to freeze and not to burn
Before the piercing, conclusive truth.

Being for so long and perfectly alone.
So many hours punished by the silence,
The long days in tamed anger,
Waiting for relief,
All those good wishes in letters were never sent.

The gleams turned in the blunt, painful light.
Just two living spheres and a clear, cold glass
In the ocean of rigid duties,
A star’s slow implosion,
Reshaped colorful memories, grasping at remains.

The vivid balloon with the air gone—
No longer flying above our heads.
Nothing else, just indifference that forgot
How it used to cry.
In the city,
I used to live in
both quiet and busy places -

But my first foray into fast living
was in a suburb called “Liberty Grove,”
established for the ‘2000 Sydney Olympic Games.”

What was once a village of athletes giving their blood, sweat, and tears for their countries,
and to hear a few cheers,
was now a layer cake of strangers
living the daily grind in drone-like silence —
Forge my faith in the furnace of loving fury,
That I may be purified for You —

May my burning beauty be a beacon,
And more of Your love ensues.
Someone once asked me,
“What did you do
to become a poetess?”

I said,"nothing.
I only broke the dam of emotions
I had built over the years.

The flood of emotions
themselves turned
into poems
and I became
a poetess."
(I have my doubts)
Baths outside --
It's a country thing...

After a hard day’s work
of rounding up the cattle,
fixing fences fast and
grounding the grass, you’ll mantle
the horses and red-hot stamp them...

You may break for brunch:
coffee (necessary) and a bite to eat,
But then it’s back on your feet.
More jobs to greet..

Then, when the sun starts setting,
just like it's done on 'McLeod's Daughter's' and ‘Yellowstone’ —
You throw off your clothes and get right in
to the outside bath,
And soak off the grime from your worn out bones.

Sip a cold beer, or shot a wild whiskey, with relieving cheer!
"ahhhhhhhhhhhh!"
In my need for control,
I became the monster —
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