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For centuries we’ve fought to keep our sanity. To suppress shakti is to stay in control. To never let go. We are as old as the rivers. Consciousness controls us. We become beholden to the formless. Sourceless. Oblivion. Lions roar in obscure forests. We dare not utter our reply to the night’s lullaby. I shudder to think. All wisdom is a lie. We are trying to fly but can’t get off the ground of reason. I am surrounded by shadows, in an arrowless sky. High as the ceiling in my mind. I try to climb towers and spires made from rope and steel. We are already here. In the beginning we roamed the earth and ate from the soil. A morning’s work, is not a life of toil. Love never rots. Love is undying. We are trying to take something that is never available. We are hardened. With lots of red earth under our scars. We are scared and trying to fix ourselves. Bless your fear. Shine the light on these breadcrumbs. You’ve made yourself smaller than a pencil. Instead, be a permanent marker.
Chelsea Chavez Jan 2016
somewhere in the dewfields a feeling unfolds. it was a noble feeling, but just a feeling.

ah, but nothing can ever hear us now.

save the fields     -     to you I belong to them.
arrowless voices snake the round room,
but you are wearing fox feathers, saying

“what will be, will be”
“say it is so, is so”

here, the room      -     the empty field.

You know of what I speak.
Space lags. I will adjust time.

and in some blind room I make love to you alcove for suffering
as strangers arriving from the sea, a heap of fragments
and unsettling landscapes      nearing something

and for the first time, the deep heartache that comes from longing.
Oleg Snapirsky Aug 2016
All I can see is a tree.

I would not take it too lightly for its roots are deeply carved into my bed.
A pillow full of your leaves and my arms your branches.
Not even the sharpest of axes can cut this madness.
It was a cold autumn cried our sun and fruit.
The arms lay bear and the trunk grew pale.  
I am the fewest of shadows.
The dawn has awakened a distant chill and I am once again running through an arrowless path.

All I can see is a tree.
Chris Thomas Jul 2017
There is talk
Too often, that's all it is
Of storms far off in the distance
Of raindrops created by baseless rumors
Knowing that silence is stationary
That the stillness is where the clouds are breaking

There are other eyes
Watching us, studying our movements
Laughing at our comedy of errors
Lamenting our production of self-affliction
Dizzy from the spinning film reel
And waiting patiently for the sequel

There are shots fired
From empty chambers and arrowless bows
Where the trauma is the most severe
And blood runs colder than December's breath
The aim was meant for the bullseye
But in truth, the bull is still sound asleep

— The End —