"directing" poems
In all my paralyzing confusion, only one thing is needed; in all my anxiety over my much less than ideal circumstances, only one thing is needed; in all my this-is-so-unfair discouragement, only one thing is needed; in my pressing-down-like-a-boulder-on-my-chest grief, only one thing is needed; in my feels-like-my-insides-are-being-scraped-out sorrow, only one thing is needed; in my falling-apart-at-every-seam life, only one thing is needed; in my can’t-seem-to-muster-the-will-to-get-out-of-bed depression, only one thing is needed; in my sure-I’m-finally-going-crazy state of mind, only one thing is needed; in my so-mad-I’ve-got-to-throw-and-break-something anger, only one thing is needed. In the scorning and tormenting face of rejection or betrayal or failure or devastating news or disfiguring disease or the worst fears of my heart coming to pass, only one thing is needed—to come and sit at Jesus’ feet and listen to what He is saying.
To entrust myself to Him, to acknowledge His presence with me, to submit myself to His perfect authority over me, to just look at Him and recognize His all-surpassing worth, to feast on Him, to wait for Him to speak and know that He longs to do so more than I long to hear it, to meditate on His Word and speak it back to Him both in praise and request and to ask Him exactly what it means for me right now, to be ready to respond to Him in obedience and follow him wherever or however He leads, to be willing to tune out every competing voice no matter how well-intentioned and to say “No!” to whatever He has not called me to, to believe that He cares deeply and passionately for me both in His emotion toward me and in His personal tending of me, to see that the details of my life matter even more to Him than they do to me and that He holds every one of them in His hands and is perfectly directing them for intimacy and glory, to refuse to be drawn away or worried or upset by the many preparations and distractions all around me by casting every burden down before Him and taking up His all-sufficient grace for every need, and above all to want Him more than anything and to let everything else fit into that all-pervasive desire—this is the ONE THING that is needed both now and throughout every season of my life, and if I will choose it, it will not be taken from me. It is the one thing worth fighting to the death for and will, no doubt, require just such a dying again and again and again...
Jul 24, 2017
Jul 24, 2017 at 7:27 PM UTC
Reinaldo was the name they gave the great white elephant
Who came to clear the jungles around Sao Paulo
A clever notion that because Reinaldo was born in the jungle
Any jungle would do just fine, Brazilian or Siamese made no difference
Just as clever was the notion that because I was a black man, educated
I would do just fine directing other black men to do work, English or Portuguese made no difference
Was I truly so much a fool, twice over?
Reinaldo occasionally was afflicted with slothfulness
Some of the men thought it was from lack of **** and whip
I was of a mind that it was due to lack of companionship
It was costly enough to ship one giant beast across a great sea
I left a wife, in Maryland, whom I never loved and who never loved me
I admit before the plan was in motion I never considered that Reinaldo could have a family
Sometimes, I wonder, did he have a wife who never loved him?
Loneliness became a common theme in our new home away from home
And Reinaldo and I became friends, at least I thought of him fondly
As far as I could say, of all the men he responded best to me
At times it seemed a load of lumber was hauled as a personal favor
For the handler too soft to handle with fear and anger
But as much as loneliness was a theme, so was change, and death
The lifespan of an elephant compares to the lifespan of men
Were this scheme of mine to have worked as desired
I could have sent for a cow, and made Reinaldo a sire
Soon it was revealed that slothfulness was a symptom of an elephant young, healthy and wise
Who sensed not his own, but a friend's imminent demise
Now I am left to wonder how Reinaldo will fare in a world stranger than I could have known
His softest handler and only friend bedridden, waiting for my disease to take its final toll
Jul 29, 2018
Jul 29, 2018 at 6:28 PM UTC
I apologize for my thoughts and my actions
But you must understand that I am what they call a man.
And no matter how perfect any woman thinks iam,
I might as well be nonexistent.
For women are the most alluring, sinful ,angelic animals on earth.
I am simply bewitched by your existence.
I can not resist directing an ****** daydream,
Every seven minuets.
The being of your facts,
Makes me want to fall to my death beneath your feet
Something about those hills
That makes my teeth want to sink into my lips.
That voice makes me want to do one thing:
Hear it moaning.
No matter how hard I attempt to be an angel,
My devil enduringly conquers.
We refuse to admit that a
woman is stronger than a man.
We could easily succeed
in having a human being develop
Inside of us and painfully ****** it out of a diminutive hole
Nine physically and emotionally draining months later.
“We could probably do it better than you can.”
We just act ignorant and
Heedlessly assume what is logical;
However, in the reaction center,
that every man denies,
lives the manifest verity that:
Women.
Are.
Stronger.
To be born into a stormy emotional spectrum
With color and darkness
Alone shelters the truth for you.
Fact: A man does use his small head much more often then
His actual head, simply, because men don’t know how to use it.
How convenient it is to be born with two heads.
let its roots anchor into your minds and consume your conscious.
-Arizona
Jan 12, 2013
Jan 12, 2013 at 8:42 AM UTC
High up above our war-torn city,
On Snapper hills sit the old lighthouse.
For years in storms, she did her duty
Rain or shine without any kind of excuse.
High above our beautiful sandy shores,
Just like a good mother, she watches
not only over vessels but those
Who lost hopes and suffered all kinds of damages.
The light she flashes has for years,
Served as a perpetual beacon of hope
For those with bad memories and fears,
those traumatized by wars who still can't live and cope.
High above Monrovia, she stands
Watching the resilient people below
Survivors of the deadly Ebola strands
Who once refused to bow their heads low.
High above she sits, beyond the Montserrado basin.
At night her light remains the star of the city,
That has endured moaning and crying,
A city that has seen the good, the bad and the ugly.
The old lighthouse still stands there today,
directing maritime traffic at night
and flashing light over our beloved city
That for years witnessed a ****** and senseless fight.
IB-Poetry©️
2/19/2018
Feb 18, 2018
Feb 18, 2018 at 10:33 PM UTC
The voices in my head, brought me to this place
A gloomy surrounding, everything looking lifeless and sad
I question myself, “Why am I here?”
But as I look ahead, I see a beautiful mountain; covered in fluffy snow,
Almost looking like the clouds.
Now, I am yearning to see the mountain up close,
But how do I get to see the best view?
With no one around, not even animals
Who do I go for, for advice?
I continue to look and walk around,
Still clueless, not sure what has drawn me to go on this journey
“It’s only a mountain,”
I tell myself.
Trying to figure out where the voices in my head came from
My mind is blocked
Can’t think straight or
See clearly
Everything is a blur.
Could this possibly be a dream?
I continue on with this journey
Trying my best to find a way to get to the snowy mountains
Tired and lifeless,
I pass out in the middle of nowhere
Flashbacks start to come
You were the voice in my head
Your harsh words,
Harsh words that brought me into this dark place
Left me feeling helpless and burdened
I get up and try to find a way out
Here I am standing, standing where I began
Looking at the mountain,
From where I’m standing, I question myself:
“Which way do I go?”
There’s the stream
A stream that’s aligned with the mountain
And the mountains with a path cleared out
Directing me to the snowy mountain.
The voices in my head
Preventing me from moving forward,
Drowning me with sadness.
The longer I’m here,
The more it overwhelms me
I’ve got to get out of here.
Jul 7, 2018
Jul 7, 2018 at 9:56 PM UTC
Lipstick cigarettes and the empty soul of modern rock n' roll
laid in ruin amongst my collection of black soul addictions and sultry benedictions.
MIDI saxophones and an ex-girlfriend on the telephone
directing me to find my home, to rebuild the comb, to banish the bartender and the Reverend ******
Alamo idiot stand and a neon Jesus
waving newcomers into the whitewashed port town known as "Cuba North".
At the Caged Gorilla, Linda, the waitress,
laughs through yellowed teeth, while my bloodshot eyes crawl up her red gums.
Binge'd and my brain keeps parallel with the ceiling fan
while a plain clothes cop tries to give me the reprimand for nostalgic mischiefs.
Handcuffed and looking for that old fiend, Freedom,
while Miranda spews on the back of my skull, slides down my shoulders, dots the cement.
Out the door and tourists with cameras looking for evil behind my irises,
but I can assure my handshakes feel the same, I'm front pew tame, and I blend with the parade.
Jan 12, 2012
Jan 12, 2012 at 7:13 PM UTC
Throned in splendor, immortal Aphrodite!
Child of Zeus, Enchantress, I implore thee
Slay me not in this distress and anguish,
Lady of beauty.
Hither come as once before thou camest,
When from afar thou heard'st my voice lamenting,
Heard'st and camest, leaving thy glorious father's Palace golden,
Yoking thy chariot. Fair the doves that bore thee;
Swift to the darksome earth their course directing,
Waving their thick wings from the highest heaven
Down through the ether.
Quickly they came. Then thou, O blessed goddess,
All in smiling wreathed thy face immortal,
Bade me tell thee the cause of all my suffering,
Why now I called thee;
What for my maddened heart I most was longing.
"Whom," thou criest, "dost wish that sweet Persuasion
Now win over and lead to thy love, my Sappho?
Who is it wrongs thee?
"For, though now he flies, he soon shall follow,
Soon shall be giving gifts who now rejects them.
Even though now he love not, soon shall he love thee
Even though thou wouldst not."
Come then now, dear goddess, and release me
From my anguish. All my heart's desiring
Grant thou now. Now too again as aforetime,
Be thou my ally.
6.1k
In the annals of New York City
An amazing hero is acclaimed,
Known as "The man in the red bandana"
Welles Remy Crowther was his name.
Born in Nineteen seventy seven,
This New Yorker, born and bred,
Could have escaped death's destruction,
But chose to rescue folks instead.
All his life he cared for people,
Loved his family, kept them dear,
But on that day of 9/11
His higher purpose became clear.
An Honor Student, Lacrosse player,
Former fire fighter, too,
When explosions rocked the building,
Welles knew what he must do.
Rescuing with calm authority,
Directing people toward the doors,
He found a woman so disabled
He carried her to the 61st floor.
In the end, before death took him,
Twelve people were brought out, saved.
No one knows where Welles is buried
In his 9/11 grave.
Later, when his mother told
Of the red bandana Welles had,
The survivors saw his picture,
And knew Welles was the brave lad.
Only 26 years old,
Welles Crowther manned up in strife,
That young man is New York's hero...
... for twelve gave HIS VERY LIFE.
Soul Survivor
Catherine Jarvis
(C) September 11, 2014
13th anniversary of 9/11
Sep 11, 2014
Sep 11, 2014 at 7:54 PM UTC
Dead skin and dirt under crescent shaped keratin claws
I'll take a shower- fix the problem, but
Sin isn’t grime, and pain isn’t filth
and the lines on my arms
aren’t a map
directing you anywhere
but you’ll trace them from my wrists to my eyes and you’ll
wonder
Dec 4, 2012
Dec 4, 2012 at 2:09 PM UTC
You were the star that watched me,
twinkling in a vast dim space;
You were the candle in the middle of the room,
sending wisps of smoke in air.
You built a pathway for the microchip,
directing energies from place to place;
You weaved your words into my mind
and left with an unfinished blanket.
The moon was still up in the midst of the day,
the clouds are spouting rainbows as rain.
The years have passed, this flower has not bloomed
Will this ever be the day I awaited?
Sep 5, 2015
Sep 5, 2015 at 8:57 AM UTC
Enzymes directing life force through biochemical processes - nutrients from bountiful soil fusing metabolic, synchronic pulsations and creating existential tonic
Developing a constellation of ideas; a symphony of fresh and innovative designs oscillating between various meditative and educative representations at increasingly high, metaphysical levels of vibration.
Nov 9, 2014
Nov 9, 2014 at 11:51 AM UTC
In a dream every cloud contains a moon
pulling me out of the dream into Sunday-
awake every cloud contains a leopards eye
directing the snow cat to a stream.
I swear in a previous incarnation i drank
from the same waters and this leopard is
the distant offspring of my feline sons
and daughters. Our eyes meet and lock
once and we are sketched into the
narrative of each others dream.
Dec 30, 2011
Dec 30, 2011 at 9:25 AM UTC
‘Apocalypto’ is a film set in a Maya civilisation and consists of a story that takes place in one tribe and how a passing tribe affects them to a degree of destruction. The story unfolds in a linear way of storytelling which is basic but still effective. From director Mel Gibson, the director of ‘Braveheart’ and ‘Passion of the Christ’. An underrated director of sorts but a great one nonetheless. Overlooked due to his acting career, he has been holding back on us as a director.
The characters are set to be living a Mayan life and go about their days behaving as such but are rather generous and civilized for such an old race of people. They live peacefully and secluded until they interact with another tribe which brings about their downfall. And the way in which a Mayan civilization might go about solving problem as common as a natural disaster. Through sacrifices to the God's as a way to solve problems and mass results. Very accurate to the Mayan culture as well as the entire movie taking place without one word of English, all dialogue being said in the Mayan language. Another credit to the film.
The directing style for this film is beautiful and flawless to say the least. No shaky cam used or hand held cam either. All fluent movement of the camera to create a great story, one that flows naturally. The use of camera angles is creative and different, using tilted angles to convey a certain mood and straight framed shots to convey another mood.
The performances stand out as a huge positive, the actors who I have honestly never heard of give Oscar worthy performances. Mel Gibson uses unknown actors as not to compromise the film by the status of the actors. These actors and actresses give a hard performance based on body language and quiet moments, the enduring task of learning to be emotional through a foreign language. Which is why I would guess Mel Gibson used local actors who are more aware of the Mayan language than American actors.
The set design is truly Oscar worthy in this film. The Mayan temples and tribe lands are captured perfectly in the sets for this film. Well build and suited towards the amazon environment. As well as good filming locations, using the wonders of the amazon rainforest as an advantage.
In final thoughts, I believe that Mel Gibson is a stunning director with an eye for detail and a beautiful visual director. A director that can produce great work. ‘Apocalypto’ to me in the near future will become a period piece masterpiece. A tale of survival and dedication that will live on through the ages.
Rating: Film - 8.4
Personal - 8.9
Sep 29, 2016
Sep 29, 2016 at 12:02 PM UTC
To Ezra Pound
These are the names of the companies that have made
money from this war
nineteenhundredsixtyeight Annodomini fourthousand
eighty Hebraic
These are the Corporations who have profited by merchan-
dising skinburning phosphorous or shells fragmented
to thousands of fleshpiercing needles
and here listed money millions gained by each combine for
manufacture
and here are gains numbered, index'd swelling a decade, set
in order,
here named the Fathers in office in these industries, tele-
phones directing finance,
names of directors, makers of fates, and the names of the
stockholders of these destined Aggregates,
and here are the names of their ambassadors to the Capital,
representatives to legislature, those who sit drinking
in hotel lobbies to persuade,
and separate listed, those who drop Amphetamine with
military, gossip, argue, and persuade
suggesting policy naming language proposing strategy, this
done for fee as ambassadors to Pentagon, consul-
tants to military, paid by their industry:
and these are the names of the generals & captains mili-
tary, who know thus work for war goods manufactur-
ers;
and above these, listed, the names of the banks, combines,
investment trusts that control these industries:
and these are the names of the newspapers owned by these
banks
and these are the names of the airstations owned by these
combines;
and these are the numbers of thousands of citizens em-
ployed by these businesses named;
and the beginning of this accounting is 1958 and the end
1968, that static be contained in orderly mind,
coherent and definite,
and the first form of this litany begun first day December
1967 furthers this poem of these States.
December 1, 1967
3.8k
Jealousy
&
greed
setting fire to the
wind
directing humanity
ever closer to
sin
Apr 5, 2019
Apr 5, 2019 at 3:21 PM UTC
Introduction:
What is Preludium but a time to reflect on what it is we know;
What has gone before, and how it might shape those things to come?
Preludium, or, what has gone before:
An entire world,
A great big steaming musty living breathing screaming world and-
For all we know-
There’s but two souls that care to fill it:
Sly Squint, our latest hero,
Swinging through his city like t’were a steaming jungle
And him the proverbial Ape,
He crouches in shadows on rooftops,
Directing his lust, forceful! At all
That kneels before him.
Then there’s our mysterious wanderer-
One hell of a sorry, stinking, sulky sort is he.
No Name to claim yet garbed in rags aplenty
Travelling on an endless quest
Towards a dying dusk.
Yet we need to draw a Third.
See, in this strange place we find ourselves, riddled with danger and loss,
We need one who knows some things;
One who is up there;
Better yet, one who helped to shape this world.
Because for now we are clueless, vulnerable, shambling in darkness.
And that will simply not do.
So, with haste, dear reader, with haste,
Let us ride for the one with the answers;
The one with more Names than you can count, even if you had a lifetime in which to do so;
The one who holds all the strings.
Jul 1, 2015
Jul 1, 2015 at 7:00 PM UTC
*
Cast among the downpour,
gates beneath dark clouds are left open
The creek is rising, drowning underbrush,
darkening tree trunks,
moving swiftly the discarded,
Collecting at the walls of this place,
as stone and mortar slowly crumble
From a desperate vantage point
overlooking nature’s angry powers
I see a shape, a floating aura,
eyelet gown of gold stitch, woven ribbon dreams
Mahogany hair flowing, eyes captivating,
drifting atop muddied raging waters,
directing the flow with blown kiss persuasion
Suddenly swept away, barely a breath remains,
swallowing life in surrendering gulps
Flailing intoxicated waves, undertow’s grasp,
when a hand reaches, fingers interlock
Glazing blue skies whisper in sunlit reflections,
ocean breezes soothe washed out tides,
as a sand dollar wishes on a seashell
And now upon this beach I lie safely within soft arms,
tasting her mimosa lips, warm and sweet
I drink in her flavor neath palm tree shadows,
cool in the heat, but hot of her skin
My heart hears the glistening, tingling my senses,
awashing me in desires impossible to imagine,
as I happily drown in her*
Aug 30, 2016
Aug 30, 2016 at 7:03 PM UTC
Day One:
A voice speaks to me.
When you realize that being lost is so close to being found, you see a sea of family members plagued within the lineage of licentious newborns and hospital beds. You become yourself, a lisp.
Day Two:
Long ago in a city left unscorned he was torn, from the cokeheads and colorful regimes, angels sing long songs of separation anxiety and **** withdrawal. I was torn from the deadbeats of supposed society and three day vicodin trips into my mind. So can you let me know when I get there? ‘Cause I left there running…I wonder, did someone ever tell you that two strangers could twist around your neck at beck and that three parked cars and seventeen lonely nights could haunt you for the rest of your faces.
Day Three:
Tell me of your drug induced hallucinations.
Day Four:
Wait. Hear. Can’t you listen to the relapse? Stop, think. No. gone. Left. Love. Return. My curious addiction. Go back into yourself and listen. Can’t you hear your soul call to me? It’s loud.
Day Five:
I remember prizes at the bottoms of cereal boxes, right before the net broke. Will you be first? Snap back to reality.
It’s dark in here. Wretch from me… I am crying, screaming,
haha! I’m melting inside!
Day Six:
By plucking her petals you do not gather the beauty of the flower, but the seed inside
Caked over in grief, we are not plates that match. But fools of folly caught in a sea of coke and disillusioned discord. Speed stands between directing and orders to death’s soldiers.
Day Seven:
The difference between God and his counterpart is that he makes exceptions!
Except me.
Day Eight:
Accept me!
Please.
Wait.
No.
don’t slow,
speed.
I can only take so much forgiveness,
is a decision, and I cannot make it.
I am without it, leave me breathless.
Day Nine:
The angel of death waits
He comes for me, but I am running, finding, hiding my inner Nemo in the hands of oxycodon, privileged in the amenities of amphetamines.
I am tired of running!
Haggard.
Take away my hands, my restraints.
Let me feel
again.
Please.
Day Ten:
I am awake.
There is an apple in my field of vision.
Kiss it. Love it.
Take it to hedonism and back again.
But it knows too much.
So tell it everything will be ok.
It lives in epilepsy.
So placate it.
Resurrect my apocalypse.
Jul 31, 2013
Jul 31, 2013 at 8:57 PM UTC
Save My Soul, (But First), Rub My Feet
thus a poem auditorialy conceived,
but!
the sexuality of the deceiving dualities,
irritates erogenous, exogenous perceptiveties,
plethora of intensifying variables, a not-serious,
harmless remark yet bring us to myriad of
marauding reversals, add-venturing into harm’s way…
much to discuss, but this
topic bettered by much
trading of traditional bantering
brevity bettering our wordless battering
insinuating, sensational signals bring
us backwards & forwards
to an exploratorium of wide boulevards
back to new unfamiliar venues,
narrowing alleyways & places we were before,
places before we were before where,
no unnecessary commas to separate,
distingué, distinct
tween the instinct of old and new,
an uncommon commonality experiential revisionism
now I understand what you said to me,
a tenderizing of
the sole synapses directing
the brain, the old ooh ‘s, aah’s
reigniting what what lay dormant,
at long last,
by opening doors to alternations,
ven diagram of digressing yet intersecting
old & new pathways,
from the souls of her feet,
to, too, two,
we become diamond
on souls of our heat
May 30, 2023
May 30, 2023 at 4:50 PM UTC
Across the road
A J-K girl,
Skipped and laughed
On her way to school.
She was strapped
To a big back-pack,
Looking like
A pink pack mule.
Behind her strove
Her drover,
Directing her to quarry
All the stones of learning.
By three o'clock
My minature mule,
A little slower
Trudged from school.
The pack was filled
With rules and tools.
She had panned
The ores of knowledge;
She'll assay them
In days to follow.
Each day my mule
Will turn the grindstone,
Crunching numbers,
Sifting fine poems.
She's mining all the hidden gems
To fill her back-pack
Once again.
Sep 9, 2015
Sep 9, 2015 at 9:54 AM UTC
when no objective is best for our protection
protecting ourselves would be the best direction
directing ourselves toward a progressive connection
connecting our minds to make a collective correction
correcting the obsessions that infect our perception
perceiving ourselves as the essence of conception
conceiving a brand new perspective of reception
receiving the blessing that we call perfection
Oct 22, 2016
Oct 22, 2016 at 7:00 PM UTC
The little voice inside of you
Directing decision
Trapped
Unable to envision
Success
In rapid succession
Reverting
In sudden regression
Sewing shut
Your mind's eye
Blame your loss of contact
Contact with me
The romantic deviant
Your love is beautiful
With all it's conditions
Scolding the masses
For their mental carbon emissions
Unpopular
Is an understatement
What do you expect
Pushing for a decision
When there is no answer
Jan 1, 2011
Jan 1, 2011 at 2:19 PM UTC
Beams directing traffic on Belmont
Paintings of St.Mary in each house
A blessing is in the home of Sanchez
Yelling at the top of my lungs, Alexandria!
Her lips the color of a summer rose
She might meet my girlfriend
Tired of the flat girlfriend
I ride the 70 down Belmont
In a garden I pluck a rose
And wait outside her house
Oh how I love the name Alexandria
The finest gem from Mrs. Sanchez
I love the sound of an Sanchez
It brings shame to my girlfriend
That fiery accent calls me to Alexandria
No matter the distance between me and Belmont
She can look in front of her house
Im on her sidewalk, holding a rose
I will always hand her roses
Predjuice eyes from a concern Sanchez
Oh if they ever found me in that house
So she walks to my girlfriend's
Away from the curious eyes on Belmont
They've ask where is my Alexandria?
Don't worry my Alexandria
Soft like the pedal of a rose
Let me kiss you outside of Belmont
Where nobody is named Sanchez
Show you where I lay next to my girlfriend
We can make love all over this house
Just get comfortable in this house
Spray that majestic spirit, Alexandria
Maybe I pass this flavor to my girlfriend
If willing, she can even get a rose
Call it the night she tasted a Sanchez
What we can share with the Latina on Belmont,
A girlfriend is snow on a dying rose
Warm in a house with a gem called Alexandria
Kissing the skin of an Sanchez, on Belmont
Feb 26, 2013
Feb 26, 2013 at 3:03 AM UTC
Sunflowers turn their faces towards the sun
following its warm path as it rises and sets
soaking up the comforting rays
in the winter they wither
shriveling in the grey
trembling at the loss of their old friend
the sun.
People can't act like sunflowers
we can't live to soak up sunlight
directing our lives to follow its path
sleeping through the winter
hiding our faces until the return of the warm friendly light
that melts the snow and brightens up the dreary grey
Outside I must direct my life towards the path most productive
working hard so I can have a future
and so my family and my children can have a future
I can't follow the sun with my face
like the sunflowers
But inside I shrivel in the grey of winter
the long cold months that drag on
while the sun hides behind clouds and snow
I too tremble at the loss of warmth
of bright sunny days filled with happiness
Outside I am people
but inside I am a sunflower.
Nov 15, 2014
Nov 15, 2014 at 3:56 PM UTC
though they'd not been born
as co-joined twins
a bond so close merged
in their relationship's fins
one couldn't move without
the other being alongside
always together they took
the same stepping stride
co-dependent
in everything
even of mind?
co-dependent
in everything
this their
bind
but there was a controlling
one in the pair
*it was ******* the other's*
living air
it
put
a
proviso
on
the
body
that
was
weaker
directing
it
to
be
its
spinner
speaker
the weaker one knew
that the mightier one
had its secrets hidden
away
and that it should do
what its co-joined twin
did forevermore
say
there's a sacrifice
to be made by the weaker
in codependency
Aug 28, 2016
Aug 28, 2016 at 10:15 PM UTC