Big white fluff,
you have no form really but you are every form truly.

Your distinct milky knobs present a welcoming entrance; a "Three's Company" vibe.
I wanted to catapult up to say hi
And ask "What parts of you, were parts of other clouds I've seen?"
I wanted to know where it has been; what it means.
This kind of magnificence is a collaboration.

You strike me through the glass as I wind around the pass.
I know there is more that I am missing.
Your colors may be richer, crisper but as I see you now
is blissful–
Orange, pink and bright white hues surround the few cues you are giving me,
that say " I Choose you, sullen traveler ! Look at me and be happy!"
And I was, right then– Happy.

That word that is over questioned and often fleeting went through me and however brief, I can say it was there.

Go away little wisp.
I know what you are up to.
I pay the slightest notice,
you morph into an innocent, seductive puff
strutting to and fro
offering companionship,
comfort,
yes, even love.
I admire you; you gust, fat and fluffy.
I compliment; you explode into a cumulous mass hovering ominously above.
I worry; ashen gray lithely overtakes beguiling white.
Rumbling belly fills with rage and swells with forboding.
There is no longer an escape.
My thoughts
are pulled into shadow
and slapped onto earth
in torrents of unrestrained rage.
Completely engulfed, I choke, and
swirl in great muddy vortexes down lost drains.
Who am I?
Who are my thoughts?
I only have you to grasp onto,
and that is no solace.

Today we get trochees and pyrrhic feet
slacked like the clouds of New Mexico floating
high across the blue canopy of sky.
Today we get spondees vaulting like towers,
cumulous syllables dwarfing mountains,
a vast landscape full of metric vapor.

Twelve years old and I knew I was too much.

A body too much- a stomach that stretched and stuck
and a waist left red, dented, stinging after a day in jeans.

A brain too much- a thought process that took flight
without permission and dropped rogue missiles of ideas
in phone calls with great aunts, deep in essays
during state funded tests and leaked from brown paper bags
in middle school lunchrooms, leaving me silent and sticky and
only just fitting in.

Any conversation was secondary to
the fuzzy way I could feel
my mouth tripping hard to keep up with a dizzy brain
and even before a sentence finished
Feeling regret like warm honey coat my throat and
seep down hot and solid to my roaring gut.

I was a heart too much.
Tears ran forceful and free for
so long. There was the heavy,
lonely feeling that grabbed root at my pelvis
and lounged, languid for days- ******* any hope I could muster
out of tan hide until only leather shell remained.

Dawn would find me ushering in chilling spells of misery
triggered by the whole wide world-
a boy with a gun on the news,
a teacher’s tight forehead while mean kids flexed their puberty,
Or finding a picture of my parents before they were my parents,
and wondering if they ever actually knew love.

At twelve years old my soul was stretched out and sagging.
At twelve years old I held tight to being less
At twelve years old I knew only one way dull the aches sprouting
as fast and fresh as ivy inside my bones.

At twelve every birthday candle and eyelash,
every wishbone and 11:11
was devoted to smallness and simplicity
So certain that the less of me there was
the less I would have to bear from the world.

More than half my life I’ve spent in pursuit of sharp
bones to shield and a lithe tread to conceal.
I have itched to be a sole shrinking girl among
the growing and gaining of peers-
to finally find quiet in a body that
was beginning to ripen in a shrill,
panicky way that would just not do.


More than decade I’ve spent with bile on my breath
and scrappy knuckles desperately begging
the arrangement of meat and bone I live in
to contract; to fold back in on itself and strengthen
into a place where I could catch my breath and
learn to tend.

Now, too many seasons and too many
mistakes later- I do wake up in
a smaller body. Twelve year old me is
beaming as she sneaks glances the XSs
stitched in labels and the chorus of likes that
coo and comment how darling I look in dresses.

Twelve year old me is quietly,
solemnly psyched about the bruises that bloom across
my paling curves after a good stretch on ground.
She even nods her head gleefully
to my swaying pulse as it dances to its own, faraway music.

Twelve year old me could care less about the bone-buried knots
entombed along my spine and the putty-snap cracking
bones I show off like party tricks.
She sees the yolky shimmer of eyeballs and trail of hairs I shed
like bread crumbs marking my path and she doesn’t bat an eyelash.
She’s glad she managed it-
and anyway the price is worth the discomfort,
health in youth is mostly over-rated.

But I do wonder what greedy, vicious
twelve year old me would think if she knew
I am still, secretly, too much.

Could she muster any pride as she feels
my heavy, fatigued heart expand to fill the bits
and dark corner secrets I starved away?
Or any pity as she watches empty-word fog crawl
between ribs and bellow out like a pirate’s flag under raised hipbones.
She meets the murky mass that fills my frame- heavy and suspended
like a dark towering cumulous
waiting for the bow to break and the storm to fall.

Maybe she’d find my brain chemistry unnerving.
Seeing desperate fists pawing at ideas as they are born and implode
and holding numbly to loose bits, reeling them in stunted fervor like kite strings.
Thunder cracks and I’m not nearly electric.

So I grip tight;  sinking decalcified teeth
into the catch of the day, rowing a rusty canoe out of the
whirling, mirrored lake of my mind and back to shore.
I will attempt to fit my
hard won ideas into any and all variables.
I will drive myself crazy with inspiration
but never create a **** thing.

The thoughts coursing through my almost-there body are
flexed horses. They gallop around
the same dirt track for days on end and I have bet
what’s left of my youth on photo-finish losses.
I’ve got nothing to show for who I am these days.
Except for the dresses.
I look good in the dresses.

There is no place safe on earth
Not the water, air, or the dirt
The water runs with toxic waste
The air wears white cumulous
Smoke stacked poisonous plumes
As for the dirt it is far worse
The ground is scarred by cities
Cement streets wearing steel structures
Plots of death with monument sutures
Sidewalks and brainless billboards
Visual, nasal, and audio static
The only place still safe is space
But I haven’t learn to breathe there yet

It begins the same way it ends.
Fluorescent combinations of photonic crystals,
Burning beneath my skin, into my gaping soul.
These are my lights.

Gripping tightly to is base, holding it steady,
Peer through its open lense.
Record each and every moment.
This is my camera, so let it commence.

Take 1.
A mother wails as her baby rolls out.
Physicians stagger in, along with nurses.
NICU is now home to the baby girl who
Came 2 months before she was due.
02/01/1995 - the unforgettable date that
I changed my family’s lives.

Take 2.
Fast forward to when everyone else’s
Nightmare’s become my reality.
The thoughts took over my anatomy,
Constricting blood vessels in my brain
And with every heartbeat those enlarged
Vessels collided with my skull – throbbing.
A rainbow of pasty pills dissolved on my tongue,
Releasing their chemicals into my ocean-like blood stream.

Take 3.
Every waking day had not only become a
Physical struggle but in fact a psychological endeavor.
The thoughts hindered my perception of reality,
Just as cumulous clouds darken the suns light.
Back seat riding with my negativity leading
Me through a tunnel of self-destruction.

Take 4.
Addicted.
To the bottle, the drugs, and the razor blade.
Addicted.
The dullness of the liquor,
The euphoric journey the drugs took me on and,
The intoxicating aroma the blood gave off
As it poured down my wrist
Shaped my addictions to that of self-annihilation.
Those were my Actions.
It ends the same way it began.
Fluorescent combinations of photonic crystals
Burning beneath my skin, into my gaping soul.
Now this is the end.

If my life was a Motion Picture;
I would go back and film it again,
But this time validating true happiness.

Dante’s dance of death arrives
Sparrows take to air
And massive nimbo-cumulous
Soar to lightnings vivid flare.
The final page is almost read
Incredulous am I
That Lady Luck has touched my soul
Allowing me to cry.

To watch a scarlet sunset sink
Into a sea of green
And feel the chill of evening stroke
My mortal fascade’s sheen.
Cavorting fillies canter
In blue nightfall’s velvet pall
Whilst the crystal tones of crispness
Peal from distant blackbird's call.

The magnificence of feeling
Permeates my very soul
And the factored life impermanence
Magnifies the spirit’s hold.
A sensate wave of gladness
Washes over all I see
And the brilliant joy of being
Lifts the fear of death from me.

Marshalg
Victoria Park Tunnel
21 August 2010

Cumulous pillows
of insomniac depravity
drizzle keen pulp
unto the eye, hair wetting
mattress - springing
metal spasms
upon the spine of those
who dream.
Mellow morning
saltily floats up
from morbid
somnambulations

The birds, the bees, the flowers, and the trees;
we are all of these.
We are nature- the creative wonders encompassed in a dark world.
We are the free flying hummingbirds whose wings flutter ever so lightly.
We are the bumblebees always in search of pure gold dust.
We are the flowers that bloom each May and die every December.
We are the roots, the leaves, the branches, and the berries of the trees growing in your backyard.
                                                       ­                                                                 ­                 We are all of these,
                                                                ­                                                             how long we were fool’d.

The planets, the galaxy, the stars, and the cosmic energy;
we are all of these.
We are the universe- the owners of rented space and borrowed time.
We are the spinning planets giving glory to the sun.
We are the galaxy sharing the same name as our favorite candy bar.
We are the stars that are wished upon by countless hopeless romantics.
We are the force, the colors, the radiance, and the chemical reactions of the cosmic energy your soul emits.
                                                          ­                                                                 ­                    We are all of these,
                                                                ­                                                                 ­  how long we were fool’d.


The rusty bridges, the flooded valleys, the polluted air, and the sketchy back alleys;
we are all of these.
We are eyesores – the blemishes surrounded by the unexplained beauty.
We are the bridges blistered by acid rain and pigeon waste.
We are the valleys, lost in wondrous mountains that are immersed in water.
We are the air filled with gaseous atoms that hide beneath cumulous clouds.
We are the homeless, the litter, the stray cats, and the flickering lights of the back alley in your glamorous city.
                                                                ­                                                                 ­          We are all of these,
                                                          ­                                                                    how long you were fool’d.

We have embodied the good, the bad, and the ugly.
We have embraced the magnificent, the imperfect, and all that is in between.

It was a ritual scarfing
spiced-eggs at the subbase,
then heading up
to the mountaintop
to check on
the cumulous-situation.

From the banana house,
one can see for eternity
the tips of Tortola & beyond
& grow fond of such splendor.

The beauty of such moments
can sink deep & stir hearts.
Even the stoutest of pirates
can cry behind the patch,
get snatched by this passion,
reveal his hidden treasure.

My blood-eyes always
seemed mesmerized,
pleasured
by the ***-filled hours
spent down on Back Street
before each maiden voyage.

The trips to Drake's Seat
to confer with the
dreadlocked-donkey man
were always my final stop.
For he had select bumblegum-*****,
homegrown at market prices,
to change perspective
& buccaneers ya know,
certainly need that fix.

Those warm Trade Winds
whipped through
the Inward Passage
while lobsters boiled
on the shore,
and there, raised up
high on the edge,
my stiletto kniving sapphires,
I understood
the true meaning of freedom,
riding supersonic
under golden suns,
in a world
so alone & starving.

That beautiful Wind as it howls from the pass
Blowing tussock in waves across hillocks of grass,
Causing red leaves to billow in curtains of fall
To gather in windrows beneath the stone wall,
Where the zephyrs play mischief in colour and swirl
And cascades of leafage fly skyward and whirl.

And the hawthorns sway in that beautiful way
And the reeds all bend in the lake
Where the concentric rings caused by raindrops and things
Cause the surface to shimmer and shake.

That beautiful Wind as it streams through the trees
Brings a tear to my eyes, makes me weak at the knees,
For the patterns of movement, the rhythmical sway
And the roar of the torrent in leafage at play.
And the impact of raindrops, so fresh on my face,
Make me laugh at the wonder of this special place.

And the starlings all heel with immaculate feel
As in thousands, they flock to the trees,
Where with cochophanous joy in full voice they employ
A concierto of birdsong to please

That beautiful Wind when it plays with the clouds
Where the mares tails extend in such glorious shrouds,
Then in furious plight, usually just before night,
Nimbo cumulous flashes electrify bright,
Where the lightening bolt snakes, from on high, where it makes
A most thunderous roar through the sky as it breaks.

With the wind in my hair and without single care
I celebrate Wind with delight
With the sound of the breeze blowing cottonwood trees
And my day turning beautifully night.

Marshalg
Inspired by "The Last Winds" a poem by K, Daniel Little Paw McCreight
@ the Pukehana Paradise
Epsom
23 March 2013

Reverberating random radio waves
waves of blank blasting bells
bells of unfounded fickled fear
fear in cumulous clouded clatter
clatter of sick ******* sounds
sounds like you yearn your years
years of finding fallen failure
failure to see second sight
sight of blinded brilliant brain
brain farts form filthy fumes
fumes of angry artistic air
air is thick with wasted words
words that remain regretfully wrong
wrong way to tell twisted tales
tales of virtual visual *****

New style of poem i am working on. In first verse, the first three words must start phonetically the same. In the other verses, it must be last three words. Hard to make sense by these rules, but it was fun.

Clear water and blue skies
Distorted through glass eyes
Watery distortions
In the human mind
Heavenly perceptions
Made to confine
Reality
A spectrum defined
By the untrained minds
Cloud kings and underworld gods
Flaming pools
And cumulous mansions
Madness
Made to make us accept
The status quo
To slow our roll
We are Sisyphus
Pushing a boulder
Ever upwards
Without water
Without a break
Till they steal our last breath
They say only fools believe
In what they perceive
That the spiritual
Is the factual
But Plato’s Socrate’s cave
His allegory
Fits our life
Explains it with a perfect fable

Adobe and dust,
a place so quiet.
One grandfather
cottonwood,
leaves rustling,
listens with us
for the next train.

Drought has dried
this land beyond
any living person's
memory.
Now, a cooling wind
gathers power.
The sky over the old
mountains darkens.

As the train pulls
out from the antique
station, a single fork
of lightning frames
itself in the small
rear window.

The silvered tracks
put distance
rapidly behind us.

Opening out now
before us, sunlight
on the High Desert.

We turn to see
starched white
cumulous clouds,
absent for months
float by, flat bottoms
casting healing shadows
over the parched land.

In Albuquerque, we
stop for new passengers.
It's days after the 4th of July;
families have been visiting.

Roasted green chilies,
their fragrance so earthy
are brought onboard.

A mother and her 
teenagers sit down
beside me. She smiles,
we talk. This brother
and sister are so good
to each other.

Dinner in the dining car
is an old-fashioned treat.
Big windows and white
cotton table cloths.

I find myself seated
family style, with a
father and son. Some
bicycle race has given
them rare time together.

As night comes on,
the conductor makes
a sleeping time call.
The lights are dimmed.

In the early hours,
walking aisle after
aisle and car to car
I see humanity
asleep in all its
quirky loveliness.

Tanned toddlers,
sprawled almost upside
down. Hair mussed up,
wearing bows meant
for grandparents.

Graying heads,
long accustomed to
leaning into one another,
rest peacefully.

One young man, a poet
with a crown of dreads
stands alone with his
thoughts, looking  
out at the stars.  

Jostled awake now,
I see the The Big Dipper
perfectly placed as a child
would draw it, twinkling
in my smudged window.

A haze of soft pink light
signals this new day.
All of us, coming home.

Human angels, each
here for one another.

The clouds came courting,
converging on the moon,
a congregation
of celestially
illuminated bodies,
painting the night sky
with their smoky grey, white,
blue, light
cumulous wonder.

What sad weary eyes we have
that see, in all the world,
such poverty and pointless pain.
Would not the sunlight bathe upon it
if we simply look again?

For the eye of the beholder
may choose the depth of tint
we see, through a rose coloured lens.
A hint of fanciful forms,
as they filter the rays they sense.

From beneath the haze
of the shimmering sun,
lies beauty, long forgot.
Or is it simply a mirage,
cavorting through rays far too hot?

Skies of deep azure
with clouds of cumulous mass
drifting lazily on the breeze.
Picturesque landscapes of floral palette,
until winters frosty frieze.

Glorious forests of glazed art,
twinkling icicles, like baubles
on the trees of December.
Wondrous days of innocence pure;
of younger days remembered.

Beasts wandering wild and free
in bountiful wooded wonderlands
of willow, beach and pine.
Snowflakes join to form a blanket
of majestic patterns, sublime.

Meandering melt-water streams
flowing, afresh with new life;
untainted and abundant.
A world reborn of marvelous magic,
colours and scents, resplendent.

≈
To look upon a world in pain
and see beneath the silken shrouds
to the beauty lying below.
The scent of love, life and passion
is there for all to bestow.

We need to look from behind
eyes that want to see,
the life that we need, restored.
As a composer, creating the music of life,
is prepared to re-write the score.

*
Written by Darren Scanlon, 15th November 2014.
Revised 27th July 2015.
©2015 Darren Scanlon. All rights reserved.
http://www.darrenscanlon.wordpress.com

PRELUDE - THE SEE THROUGH HOUSE

a child sings from an open window
a sweet song serenades an angry sky
escorting the sun home soft and mellow
so many years have now drifted by
visiting my old home here on Vatersay
Western Isles have their own genetic blends
I made the wee trip over from Castlebay
all that was left to see - two gable ends!
As my eye resists a lonely tear
I walk alone for a while on the sand
memories hark back to yesteryear
my Parents couldn't tame an untamed land
unrelenting hardships too much to take
the summer rain and then the winter snow
remnants of a failed dream in my wake
endless crashing tides screamed we had to go
but now I've lost myself in time's assuage
smoke billows forth from a happy fire
forgetting the gales and their howling rage
just the birds and lambs of nature's choir
but then the Cuckoo sang a confused song
Oyster Catchers didn't know which way to fly
no more childrens laughter all day long
Father leans on his staff and starts to cry
I visit my childhood home this one last time
bookending my days, a kind of crescendo
a strange thing I know but surely not a crime
for an Old Lady to sing from an open window.


PART - THE FIRST

New Scotland, old Scotland it was all the same
the clearances were a distant memory
and the two thousand mile journey that took weeks.
They settled on Nova Scotia's East coast
time and circumstances made them one flesh
as they embarked on love's difficult journey
they were blessed with a sweet child, Ishbael
they both loved her tho no longer each other

at night Ishbael would sing out the open window
she would sing to the moon, she would sing to the stars
she imagined that she was a ballet dancer
and dreamed of being such when she grew up

Mother eeked out a living from the tired land
Father spent most of his time on the fractious sea
She stood motionless at the front door each night
He checked the lobster creels under a salty spray

the spode China would be laid out on the table
strategically placed on the driftwood surface
cups stained brown with tea, coffee and nicotine
and on the outside with smudges of lipstick
it was the most treasured family heirloom
it was somehow smuggled across in the boat
it was passed on to them as a wedding gift
it was the only item of value they ever had

night after night Mother watches the sea
in the distant field, Sheep murmur like Bees
the bog cotton waves like a myriad hankies
as sunlight dissolves under cumulous cloud,
his bent over figure would surely soon appear
whistling a sea shanty walking up the track
but like a novel, his script came to an end
the storm weathered body was never found

outside on the lonely pebbled shore a Curlew sang
the net curtains rose and fell to it's bleak strains
wind rattled the windows like the beating of fence posts
they drank hot milk from Spode china for the final time
their family had creaked under the stresses and strains
that night a tall poplar tree crashed through the roof
storms wrecked their home like they wrecked their marriage
a perfect marriage of howling wind and frigid air

a lifetime of memories carried toward the sea
yet that old enemy was soon to be their friend
like a crush that would simply not go away.
Veiled by wrinkles Mother responds to the calling.
Larks cavort up and down in their unyielding plot
while they are bound for a far and distant land
the land was in their blood the blood was in their kin
the Isle of Vatersay, they were going home.


PART - THE SECOND

Old Scotland, new Scotland it was all the same
but she could not ignore the similarities
she looked across the ocean, it was all the same
two thousand miles of Atlantic anger
wind driven waves like a Tiger on a lead
but the tide died, the sea had peace like a child's hair
this reminded her of her kind Step Father
he would lean on his staff and cry when things went wrong

a storm took this house too, only they were not in it!
They settled across the water in Castlebay.
Time was unveiled as she relived her childhood,
withered fence posts and rusty wire that kept the joy in
brushing aside the nettles the hearth warmed her heart
window fames were as firm as ber Father's hand shake
she carefully scraped away the moss of time,
darkening seas awakened to her silvery voice.

She scurried along the beach with a youthful gait
reminiscent of her ballet dancing days
then the tide of her heart rose like a mountain within
down in the marram grass, she stared in sheer disbelief
her body all a quiver she picked up the fragments
with cupped hands tears were mingled with Spode china
she raised her eyes heavenward and screamed...
"nach eil sin italicired"
which when translated means 'how wonderful is that!'

tears rolled uncontrolably down her face
she stood still shaking the fragments in her hands
it made a lovely tinkling sound like cow bells,
two thousand miles of Atlantic anger
had softened the edges and smoothed over her memories.
She looked fervently at the long deserted croft
the wind erased her footprints in the sands of time
and then the sun went down.


EPILOGUE - THE END

when your poems fail to rhyme
when your watch runs out of time
when you feel your fate was sealed
we were on the same level playing field

when clouds slowly start to fill your sky
when the ocean gives it's final cry
life's pathways they did wind and wend
we were all equal in tbe end

we all had good times and hope'd they'd last
but time went on rolling on by far too fast
that lady in the window she's still singing
not about 'the end' but a new beginning.

Life is no place for fools like me
Because there are no other fools like me
Cloudy nights wearing purple and grey cumulous
Softly comforting in their silent beauty
Puffy explosions of midnight joy
Quiet ponds reflecting the quiet night
There is safety in the solitude
Wonder in the shifting clouds
I choose this over the hustling daytime
I love this over the breakneck bar scene
Dimly lit lamplights breaking through the dark sky
Giving me just enough glow to read by
And when the evening gives up its sounds
The singing crickets and other chirping things
It’s like a beautiful painting, breathtaking
I choose this over the mangled masses
The mauling throng of throbbing crowds
Rushing and rushing pushing and shoving
Just to get to the next spot
A competition for the best jobs
Keep what you can and leave me the night
I am not a competitor in your gladiatorial bouts
Leave me the silence and I will take it as a gift
Leave me the night and see how my spirit is uplifted

You are not an imposter.

Look at the cumulous clouds.

They're everywhere.

They do whatever the **** they want.

As I took a drag of that cadaverous biri,
I lost the holy ghost
The cumulous had all left me...

It is a spectacular explosion
Of strange puffy whiteness
Daring to duel against
Huge light grey blue hued
Storm clouds
Descending into night time
Star strewn colors
Till the cool cumulous disappear
And the evening rain falls here

Cumulous .
Let's off utter dust

“Are you mad at me?” No.
“Well, do you blame me?” I hadn’t really considered
fault.
cumulous clouds loomed over a building
                                                    with­ a roof
                                                          like a staircase

the steps rose north, a garden placed south. It was a sunny day at first.
You gathered a pack and I met you on the corner. We walked
                       to Summit Rock. Heels in the ground and ooze
on the outer soles of shoe. Soggy soil,
our elbows linked and you held on to a flimsy branch.
                         How did we not go falling right there?

I mispronounced in the aim of humor,
which was the only reason
anything was funny at all. Yellow powder
stained curious noses and it all felt like what you have heard for so long.
“I know you aren’t fond of this”
this is what it looks like when the storm dies.
How long does it take you to realize
you’ve been sitting
in silence
the whole time?

I wondered how I looked from the window of the sixth floor
Ebullient gestures
felt like mockery where the joke once stood. No one is looking
at you.
Finally, forfend the intransigence you call will and find yourself
with an empty mind. Do you not want to know where this goes?

As it pertains to the clouds, there has never been a clear day.
I was on the opposite

side of the street when I noticed this
tree
          and saw you.
There was a raindrop, two, then many. Soil dry doesn’t take water
well.
Cotton collects and I was close to home.
I wasn’t expecting this, no, not this
at all.

River, river speak to me
Accepting, babbling brooks as you flow
Rumbling and tumbling as you go
Resisting naught as you fly by.

Main transportation system
For thrill seekers, Megan and Mary
Happy when catching air
Then landing with a thud.

Life support for bears
Black, brown and grizzly
Rafters and canoeists flowing by
Happy as a lark, not falling in.

All in awe of high mountains
Library cliffs, rock scree galore
Steep gorges, incredible canyons
Hikers rising early for physical challenges.

Team work, digging ditches,
Unloading rafts, establishing kitchens
Massive, enjoyable meals by Liam
For hungry, famished adventurers.

****** forests, panoramic views
Pale, medium blue skies
One day cumulous clouds, the next smoke
Man loves comparisons and extremes.

River of life teaching us
Sometimes expand, or slow down
Others, narrow the focus
Flow swiftly, enjoy the ride.

This is my heavenly paradise
Here on Earth.

The white painted barn
is shredded and weathered
by wind and rainwater.

The ground is
all mud and salt,
and I feel
as though
this is all
my fault.

So, I drop flowers
for metaphors,
see shadows
lurking on
the empty
meadow floor,
where a bed
of dead roses
fails to bloom
once more.

The prettiest clouds
have the
sharpest teeth
and I am certain
that there are
cumulous
stalking me.

So, I try to walk swiftly,
but I am soon stiffly
crawling across
dark landmarks,
where my paranoia
infuses me
with the certainty
of impending
death or
insanity.

Each inch gained
seems to cause
some gnawing pain,
but I try to push on.

Home is heaven’s doorstep
So close,
but so far away.

The anxiety
is forcing me
to slow
Until, I am
a frozen mess
facing a frigid death
with infinite regret
and no regress
to address
anything.