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Lucius Furius Jan 2018
Adam and Eve

Death is the mother of beauty; hence from her,
Alone, shall come fulfillment to our dreams
And our desires. Although she strews the leaves
Of sure obliteration on our paths, ...
--from Wallace Stevens' "Sunday Morning"

In Eden fair did Adam and Eve
live in perfect harmony.

"No plant or animal devoureth we,
only ripe fruit as falls from the tree."

By bright-green lily-pads in sphagnum bogs
the herons waded gracefully,
bullfrogs croaked their deep, clear calls;
bluebells, delicate yellow buttercups
were rampant; larks sang in the mulberries.

"No pain or hunger knew we there,
only the sameness of Eden fair."

Even the bounty, the beauty, the civility,
the rich perfection, stretching out like the wall
of the great oval garden, day after day,
year after year to eternity,
grew tiresome.

"No shame in our nakedness knew we ...
nor lust, nor desire, nor carnality."

It's the exogamous, the unfamiliar,
which stirs in us the deepest passion,
the basso continuo of mortality
which gives to desire its piquancy
--of which they knew nothing in deathless Eden.

"We wanted to look outside the wall.
We didn't mean from God's grace to fall."

Their lack of control, their disrespect
invited tragedy....
But to deny what one feels,
to deny what one is
is to risk even greater calamity....

"God expelled us from the Garden.
Now we'll know death and all that's human."

Discord ... despair.... Are you better off?
Coaxing grain from the cracked, parched earth?
Maybe you paid too much for your freedom?...
Maybe you wish you were back in the Garden?...

"There be good inside the Garden;
there be good outside....
There is no perfect Eden."
Hear Jerry/Lucius read this poem (at https://humanist-art.org/old-site/audio/SoF_095_adam_and_eve.MP3 ).    This poem is part of the Scraps of Faith collection of poems ( humanist-art.org/audio/SoF_095_adam_and_eve.MP3 ).
Poetic T Dec 2018
Cradle me in-between the
suffocation
                         of your lies.

For when I breath a new...

I know that every word is spoken
               with fresh breath.


Not tainted by
                the past exhalations
of what were  
                      expelled from you..
Cody Smith Oct 21
A cry for help is a cause for alarm.
Self harm carves tales in pale arms.
Scars form like lines scored in old boards
and tree bark, graffiti of hearts broke in the park.
tattoos use ink. A penknife will ooze blood into sinks.

Introspection is a writhing vivisection.
cutting deep, fists clench and twist
bending ribs with wrenching wrists.
Rending bars apart the cradle that cribs the heart

that drums a beat like bells that rung your death knell
from the first to last breath your lungs have expelled.
A tongue to tell and eyes to see, a mind to be,
a heart to feel.
Vivid Vivisection,
It hurts to heal.
Nat Lipstadt Aug 2018
disclaimer: unedited rambling and overly long and frankly, Scarlet, don't give a **** anymore...

Thus spake and quested
another, younger poet to me,
a far better one than I,
but obligations thus provided,
are serious business,
to those who understand
poetic responsibilities, and
under his own Rules of Order,
an answer,
though long in coming, AR,
must be provided.

Well well well
all is not well,
the faucets offers choices....
chrome hot
chrome cold

there is no such thing as
lukewarm truth in
clear waters that
run run,
yet never
run stilled,
birthed at turned-on conception,
to drain death removal,
another daily poetic miracle,
unappreciated by most,
overly consumed by their
own passage on this Earth

peddler wayfarer,
passing through with truth
poem pots and rattling pans
(nowadays, mostly panned),
a historic factoid,
and not what Amazon delivers...
truth is a genetically modified
bitcoin currency, misunderstood,
prone to sometimes useful,
but never ever, to stick or stain,
for I got excuses and who gives a ****,
yesterday is forgotten instantly

The coldest truths,
the confirmation of same
by mirrored image text sent,
(immediacy a necessity,
for though poor, it is 'real')
the twitter that methodically
A-lists your major crimes
B-lists your petty,
hope-you-didn't miss my
exposé of latest misdemeanors

the hot truths,
only whispered,
merely mint hinted
in a hot cuppa,
the heat itself
a cover up,
for what you do not
wish me to plainly speak
or plainly sell,
is accursed truths,
won't sell, even if free

Can't write about moon and June,
alabaster is a fine word,
but white suits me fine,
don't know the diff
tween dragon flys and lullabies

The way I write is
just the way I think, believe,
from my eyes to paper
there is no misdirection,
just silent labor conception

Poor poor real truth
is out of favor these days,
because there is nothing
no one won't cease or hesitate
to expose himself,
flaunt the anguish,
copy other's jive,
but that is real,
but it is not truth

Had a bad day,
You need to know about it
Right away!

Though I meander and excuse,
there is one state of truth,
I need yet to annotate

Too oft when tapped turned on,
it is rusty water and rusted truths
expelled and this, my stuff, my days,
not in vogue, or a top seller

I love the color rust,
overused in my poems,
but compulsion is not a
conditional, but a must

This then is the form
they spill in these,
my final days here

You might think that rust implies
lack of use,
a non-caring
for his voice,
his well practiced instrument

Au contrarie, amigo!

My rust is from overuse,
my eyes don't see
what the popular want nor
could I provide it
even if
it was demanded,
which it is not....

Rusted but unvarnished,
undisguised by fancy words
or silent cries, what you read
is what you get
until I find
a more "authentic" voice,
one that satisfies the world
not just me...he sneers....

Feel for me in the summer breeze,
from whence my best stuff
has always been plucked
sent on its way, to you,
in self-same wind,
to kiss your cheeks,
slap you alert

I used to write
on both feet
upstanding,
then Hillel was asked for
the whole truth
while standing
on just one leg

His reply:
"Love they neighbor as you love thyself"

So I switched
and now compose,
in quiet ignorance,
a wrong footed poet,
left only with his what's left,
and to put his left foot truths
first, forward and foremost,
is what he got, and
what I got, you'll get....

But a cautionary note,
drinking riposte rustys,
bad for the body,
but kindly
for your mental
wealth,
if your have the
only other element
most needed,
in your pocket posses,

courage
Rambling, unedited, and yet fresh so off to the presses..and at 4:21am,
I frankly, Scarlet, don't give a **** anymore...
annh Dec 2018
Joyously expelled,
Breath instantly recaptured,
Your mockery mine.
India Apr 2018
She wrote words on her skin with the hope they would seep into her blood stream,
and flow, freely, through her until they came to rest in her brain;
safe, protected, nestled, tucked away and waiting for the day they might slip,
tumbling onto her tongue.

Sometimes, she would trip over the words
clumsily crushed under teeth as they were flung around,
desperately seeking the chance to be expelled,
To yell “listen to me.”
But the words were confined to the bounds of her mind,
and she swallowed down the scrambled mush.

Perhaps, one day, she’d be able to push the words through her lips.
Perhaps, when they fell, she’d allow then to nurture, to nourish, to thrive and flourish.
They’d survived her endless grinding, her nervousness.
They’d blossom, bloom into sentenced to fragrant the scents would speak for themselves,
her words merely complementing the intent.

She wrote words on her skin,
tattooing her thoughts in plain sight
because despite the fact she’s never have the confidence to voice them, she longed to be heard,
so, when sound failed her,
she worried not but wrote the words.

(17/18.10.17)
Nat Lipstadt Apr 2014
Thus spake and quested
another, younger poet to me,
a far better one than I,
but obligations thus provided,
are serious business,
to those who understand
poetic responsibilities, and
under his own Rules of Order,
an answer,
though long in coming, AR,
must be provided.*

Well well well
all is not well,
the faucets offers choices....
chrome hot
chrome cold

there is no such thing as
lukewarm truth in
clear waters that
run run,
yet never
run stilled,
birthed at turned-on conception,
to drain death removal,
another daily poetic miracle,
unappreciated by most,
overly consumed by their
own passage on this Earth

peddler wayfarer,
passing through with truth
poem pots and rattling pans
(nowadays, mostly panned),
a historic factoid,
and not what Amazon delivers...
truth is a genetically modified
bitcoin currency, misunderstood,
prone to sometimes useful,
but never ever, to stick or stain,
for I got excuses and who gives a ****,
yesterday is forgotten instantly

The coldest truths,
the confirmation of same
by mirrored image text sent,
(immediacy a necessity,
for though poor, it is 'real')
the twitter that methodically
A-lists your major crimes
B-lists your petty,
hope-you-didn't miss my
exposé of latest misdemeanors

the hot truths,
only whispered,
merely mint hinted
in a hot cuppa,
the heat itself
a cover up,
for what you do not
wish me to plainly speak
or plainly sell,
is accursed truths,
won't sell, even if free

Can't write about moon and June,
alabaster is a fine word,
but white suits me fine,
don't know the diff
tween dragon flys and lullabies

The way I write is
just the way I think, believe,
from my eyes to paper
there is no misdirection,
just silent labor conception

Poor poor real truth
is out of favor these days,
because there is nothing
no one won't cease or hesitate
to expose himself,
flaunt the anguish,
copy other's jive,
but that is real,
but it is not truth

Had a bad day,
You need to know about it
Right away!

Though I meander and excuse,
there is one state of truth,
I need yet to annotate

Too oft when tapped turned on,
it is rusty water and rusted truths
expelled and this, my stuff, my days,
not in vogue, or a top seller

I love the color rust,
overused in my poems,
but compulsion is not a
conditional, but a must

This then is the form
they spill in these,
my final days here

You might think that rust implies
lack of use,
a non-caring
for his voice,
his well practiced instrument

Au contrarie, amigo!

My rust is from overuse,
my eyes don't see
what the popular want nor
could I provide it
even if
it was demanded,
which it is not....

Rusted but unvarnished,
undisguised by fancy words
or silent cries, what you read
is what you get
until I find
a more "authentic" voice,
one that satisfies the world
not just me...he sneers....

Feel for me in the summer breeze,
from whence my best stuff
has always been plucked
sent on its way, to you,
in self-same wind,
to kiss your cheeks,
slap you alert

I used to write
on both feet
upstanding,
then Hillel was asked for
the whole truth
while standing
on just one leg

His reply:
"Love they neighbor as you love thyself"*

So I switched
and now compose,
in quiet ignorance,
a wrong footed poet,
left only with his what's left,
and to put his left foot truths
first, forward and foremost,
is what he got, and
what I got, you'll get....

But a cautionary note,
drinking riposte rustys,
bad for the body,
but kindly
for your mental
wealth,
if your have the
only other element
most needed,
in your pocket posses,

courage
Rambling, unedited, and yet fresh so off to the presses..and at 4:21am,
I frankly, Scarlet, don't give a **** anymore...
Lucius Furius Jan 2018
John Brown, you scare me!
You look like a man possessed by a demon.
You look like a man who could **** his son.
You look like a man who believes in a principle,
John Brown.

He drew blood, your son did.
You took him to the woodshed and whipped him;
but then you had him whip you, harder and harder....
now what kind o' crazy-assed thing is that to be doin',
John Brown?

You were a farmer, tanner, wool-trader,
land-dealer, surveyor, shepherd.
Failed at them all, went bankrupt.
But loved your family, held it together,
John Brown.

You lived with black people at North Elba,
seated free black men in your pew at church....
They expelled you, didn't they
--those white hypocrites--,
John Brown?

Your sons murdered pro-slavery men in Kansas,
loud-mouthed, innocent men,
dragged them from their beds, in the name of God,
chopped off their arms, sliced their throats....
You were there,
John Brown.

Somehow you knew
--what were the odds that 200,000 men would die?--,
somehow you knew the earth would be drenched in blood,
somehow you knew rivers would run red with blood....
How did you know? How did you know,
John Brown?
Hear Lucius/Jerry read the poem:  humanist-art.org/old-site/audio/SoF_097_john_brown.MP3 .
This poem is part of the Scraps of Faith collection of poems ( https://humanist-art.org/scrapsoffaith.htm )
A great gift is awareness
and the first man, himself as a collective unity,
a principal, the lord and master of the Earth
And woman, as a symbolic image of
man's mother and companion,
everything that is fruitful and formative
were driven from the garden lest they
eat from the tree of life and live forever
And so all paramount woes of humanity began
Yet the sky blue like an angels robe
enlightening the world as well as mankind's
liberty born of the psyche is key
to the mystery of the intuitive mind
and all and any trials can be endured from the
viewpoint of instincts pursuit...
for the knowledge of good and evil befell
from that mistaken fruit
that begot freewill
and expelled the pair from Eden.


ELEETE J MUIR
Steve Aug 2018
Close your eyes and count to seven
Look out  for angels which art in heaven
Say your prayers and say them well
Keep clear of the devil who lurks in hell
Simple rules for us to learn
While planets turn and comets burn
Moons abound, new stars are found
And the Arabs are expelled from the promised land.
Thank you God for making it clear
So they can normalise their sins
Without shedding a tear
Close your eyes and count to ten
While the terrors of the past
Revolve again.
This is happening in front of our eyes. May a God forgive us.
Ken Pepiton Apr 8
What are you conserving, I asked my unread conservative friend.
The American Way

he said.
Like
in the songs, like back when Superman
was black and white, but

we knew,
his kryptonic heart
was read pure white and blue

and we still know,
green greed and
black time and chance, if those were never re-
al-ified, he could be,
he could be but,
for that militarial industrial mental complex
which made
Daddy Warbucks
money-ify Kryptonite,

other wise Superman would save us, so
we conserve the idea of America, as a spirit,
Drums and fifes and shots fired round the world

we stand, for the American way. Superman would.
--------

With what deeds are you judged liberal,

I asked my friend whose hero was Fidel,
when he was ten.

My friend, swift to answer, ready, with a bullhorn:

my writing and my speaking and my teaching are liberal.

Those lable you? what is deemed liberality for which
ye are judged?

Oh, I am not judged, I am in the adminstrative side,
I administer social justice by allowing critical
appreciation of the sense under lying
dadaistic community
gardens. which produce liberal reasons for
deeming faith a very low class
exercise in sapient sapience.

Whom teach ye?
Those who are sent to be taught by selection committees,
who sort tests, based on statiscal
weights and measures pre
dicted apriori for the best
social cultural
outcome.

Who pays you? Each of you.
con-server, liberal,
Who weighed your worth
in this fifty-fifty polictic project,

organical and all,

who runs the show? Is it spiracy?

Are elections pre ordained?

Was W. called by Oil and Trump oracled by Konami?
Was Barack Husein simply gas?
A UFO illusion?

Some thing the gut biome of the nation
burped or expelled from other orficees?

How did the assets of the fed expand
4.5 times since 2008,

when all I had conserved melted
with deflation of

the noise, zeitgeistiical,
humm, hear it? Do you?
Brainless axiomatic synaptic static?

Manifest destiny? Google it.

No. I checked. Not preordained. Things change.

This is the way.

Good went, thataway... and william tell
was told that apple held meaning...

cue the overture...
butadump butadump butadumpdumpdump
boomer audio meme keys
the
dream, with wikipedia and etymonline links.

aha, meaning...
the arrow never held, the message vibrated in the oak
at a point
in time. Okay, dress rehearse, masks on.

The point of the story is, good news.
it is finished.  Spaceship earth, nothing broken, nothing missing,

We have crews seeking survivors.

one day at a time. Share the road, share the load,
pay the piper, rule your realm,

make peace the leisure you worked for,
call enough enough

Remind them of the flight they all recall,
ask them if they ever dream
unknown
realisms in the realms of reasons re
cognized
in poetseerprophessor metaphors, in which

no warrior could act

as a liberal conserver re
pairing wind blown circuits.

Our peacemade hero inquisitor
of truth,

the wise king, retires on the dragon's hoard and
laughs at how easy it all became,

after imagining how Poke' mon really works,
in an open state of mind.

"A republic, if you can keep it." that was the dream.
The dream Plato imagined could work,

if we could get past that
neccessary fiction war insisted was traditional.
Intended for the verbatim bookstore open mic, 4-8-2019
harper Jan 2
ugh
Part One: (The Part With No Rhyme)

Do you remember
when I was to be expelled?
A life ruined (or so I thought)
because of my facade of stupidity,
of delinquency.

And do you remember,
after the weekly screaming and biting?
Which met with more biting, and more screaming,
and crying
And how my only solace for discomfort and failure,
were the stolen pills-

the ones with the moon imprint-


that made the heaviness of the impending crash,



weightless.



Part 2: (The Part With Rhyme)

Westbound, California bound.
Turned around, though-
to their little-big town.
Unkept and festering, with rats
Not quiet, nor sound.

Oh, how I hate this town,
and how, everything must be either white or brown-
and how, the only thing in common-
metals and jewels, robbed from their crowns.
Connor Sep 2018
Parting the stones ceaselessly
barraged by waves – Abyssal fireplaces
line my recent dreamscape in overwhelming numbers
all hungry & purveying the dirt of my forthright grave – I've had many
desperate attempts to climb your Mountain Tower, a fortress encrusted with seashells
glowing gates, halls which betray the laws of physics and stir trespassers into madness
(ardor)

I'm in the center of indefinite reprieve – a dark and shackled
sweat-bath keeps me from ascending

The Farther, my initial cause – defeated &
hush ! Slick the oil from exhausted wings – fallen protector/sublimated spirit -
as the Dominion I'd once mastered has been overtaken, now tasked at massaging
the unwashed swollen limbs of Sisyphus as repentance for my own behavior – but I have a fantastic balcony to be – Sicily, Spring – a date to attend/a death to disarm & appropriately
chain until such occasion draws me back to her

I am dark
and therefore substantial ! Terrifying ideations have ****** from my vein/The Pilgrim's onerous migration has revealed as much – Dracula thirsts in multitudes

“Life is simply a process of death and
devourment -”

Our purification is only lent to the existence of corruption. Neither can exist so long as  consciousness – specifically Ego – hasn't yet activated itself in the mind. So long as we are aware, there will be conflict in need of resolution, darkness to be expelled by light. Both are intrinsic to the other. In such a way, all division or conflict could be viewed as positive potential yet to be realized. The dragon yet to be slain
Rizna M Rameez Oct 2018
Muslims,
Islam, the religion that overcame
The period of Jahiliyyah, of Ignorance
That overcame the saying
"We do so because we saw our forefathers doing so"

Islam expelled that ignorance of blindly believing
Islam ENCOURAGES thinking

So why?
Why have we become a community, that is Muslim,
’Only because our parents were?'

Muslims,
This is Jahiliyyah.
This is ignorance.

And that is completely against the rules of Islam.

We have become an Ummah, a Muslim community
That is endangering mankind
Because of the fact
That we are not being very Muslim

We are Muslim,
Because Islam is perfect
Because it only guides us to what is right
It shows us the healthy way
Physically
Mentally
Spiritually
It keeps society together

All of us should realize that
For ourselves
Like first nature

And relieve Munkar and Nakir
That we are true believers.

And if you think Muslims persecute others
You can put that out of your mind
Cuz in Islam's book of rights
You have religious freedom
You are only Muslim if you WANT TO BE

And you're not allowed to force anybody.
01.10.2018
We are in this together, sister, brother. I think we should start encouraging more seeking of knowledge.
Jesse Jan 15
Beaten, battered, bruised and torn,
Mocked and cursed, our object of scorn.
They led him through the streets of Jerusalem that day,
As he dragged a heavy cross on the way.
He was marred so bad that you could barely see man,
For from his brow crimson blood ran. Some jeering guards nearby did adorn,
His gentle brow with a crown made of thorns.
But while this cruelty went on in the streets,
It's outside the city that this story is complete.
As this man dragged his cross up the torturous hill,
He collapsesld out of exhaustion, not out of will.
So they passed off his Cross to a man standing by,
And prodded him on to lift him up high.
At the top of the hill he collapsed once more,
As if there was an unseen burden that He bore.
Then the soldiers without sense of pity or shame,
Stripped this man naked and fixed him a name.
"King of the Jews" declared the sign to the crowd,
Yet before this king not one man bowed.
Then they fastened with nails his hands to the wood,
Before lifting up the rugged Cross where it stood.
In the eyes of all, naked and bare,
not one person present could hold this man's stare.
For it wasn't with hate that he looked down on us all,
But with eyes full of mercy with which He did call.
He cried out in his agony for the forgiveness of man,
then suffered in silence till he cried out again.
He comitted His spirit on up to his Lord,
And then bowed his head and slumped 'gainst the board.
An ominous silence settled on all standing by,
As a blanket of black clouds rolled over the sky.
The ground started to shake and violently did fit,
As if the Earth below was it going to split.
A Roman guard standing by said it with his own lips,
"This man was Gods Son and we've marred Him with whips..."
We have pierced him through and spilled blood from on high,
Yet His only defense was those forgiving eyes.
We stand here condemned, Holy blood on our hands,
Murderers and liars, thieves and brigands.
What is to become of us for the wrong we have done?
Our sin has culminated in the death of God's Son!
The thought plagued me for nights, two days to be true,
Till news came from friends, once old now made new!
They told me the reason this man died on the cross,
To give up His life to seek out and save the lost.
He on the cross bore the wages of sin,
And descended to hell, my soul to win,
He has won victory over death and the grave,
So that all who believe in Him might be saved.
So be done with your guilt, let go of your shame, let condemnation fall to the ground.
For Christ has removed it for all who believe. Let the praise of his glory resound.
Where O death is your victory where O death is your sting?
For the power you held has now been expelled and crushed 'neath the foot of the king.
Thank you my lord for the mercy You gave when my life was near it's end. This privilege have I, has open my eyes, a God who calls me his friend.
John F McCullagh Dec 2018
A terrible year it was, in everyone’s eyes.
A King and a Prince many loved had both died.
In the Cities there were riots; in the land, discontent-
In Vietnam our money and blood were ill-spent.
So as that year ended, to no one’s surprise,
We all seemed more than happy to bid it goodbye.

Then from the firmament on that Christmas Eve
Word came from Heaven to grant us reprieve.
A quotation from Genesis was read on the air,
much to the dismay of Miss Murray O’Hare.

Then the image that grabbed us, that could not be forgot
The image of Earthrise as a little blue dot
A remnant of Eden, from which mankind was expelled
A beautiful picture of the Earth where we dwell .

The planet seemed peaceful when viewed from afar
And all that seemed missing was a bright guiding star.
King_ martin Luther King,   Prince Robert F. Kennedy
Miss Murray- O'Hare- leader of Atheist group Madeline Murray-O'Hara


The astronauts Lowell Borman and Anders read the first 10 verses from the KJV of the bible
"BEWARE THE DONALL DEMPSEY MY SON!"

The frog slid slowly down
my throat.

It's legs sticking out of
my mouth...still kicking.

The world was running away
into the final darkness.

My eyes were robbed
of trees and sun.

The day being stolen
from me.

"Death by frog!"
How unlikely a dying.

The bullies were all
short-trousered lads like me

sculpted from the sunlight
of 1963.

Then either the frog gave
a desperate last minute kick

or I silently yelled
and expelled

friend frog who
having escaped death by swallowing

hopped it
lost itself in the long grass.

Perhaps the horrible tale
of down-the-gullet

is told still to its descendents
far removed from that sunny day.

"Better watch out..." Mamma Frog
would make her voice shiver

making her tiddlers tremble
with trepidation

"...or the Donall Dempsey
will get you!"
Jake Sims Oct 2018
Victory is of the self.

Another threadbare exchange to leave my spirit in poverty.
Nothing I remember but the time we drifted near my planetary ego.

Planet.
You know the Greeks called it aster planetai? The star that moves.

Why be something I’m not?

It was always about me – the bloated body expelled into space.
I can be less grotesque. I can be less absolute.
I can be less dead sooner over later.

But why be something I’m not?

I am the object of my own worship, and I shall take no gods before me.
In lieu I’ll take them with me.

They the minor idols, capsuled icons, escape pods burnt in the crazy science fiction fires of atmosphere re-entry.

Everyone was all the time fleas flaked off my solar bodyship, seeking exaltation in pursuit ex nil ad nihil.
I’d apologize for my deceptions, but I’ve got a lot to learn about remorse and little time to learn it.

Horror genre, body to cosmic. Gaze you, the invited subject, upon the approaching sun from the whet of my exhausted maw.

Burn out your eyes.

Who is greater than the sun? Who can talk more than me? It's become my occupation.

Matches made with flesh and fuel wait for the final fade to white.
Sara Buzz Sep 2018
Do you ever feel that twinge? When the hurt is so powerful that you unwillingly lose all hope, all strength and all sense of who you are and fall to your knees, head bending to the floor as your own arms come around you in a thoughtless uncomforting hug?
When the world around you is no longer there and you feel your own bones shifting inside you, caving in on itself your body is fully weak. All of your bones bend down like treebraches covering the heart that is threatening to come right out of your chest, drop into the endless pit, empty void that you cant see but is the ground.
Your skin is gone, you're a skeleton with your giant reaching bones caged around your loose swinging remaining heartstrings supporting your heart in place, tired of holding on, ready to let go, let everything fall.
Let your heart and the last inkling of goodness fade and be eaten up by your own misery, for its dry withered husk to disappear for good.
There are stray tears on your face from before, earlier, because you have nothing left in you anymore, no tears left to be expelled from either clenched closed nightmare reflecting eyes or wide open yet unseeing eyes.
Your body is shaking uncontrollably and at this point your mind is blank.
You laugh, because you have no thoughts, nothing to tie you back down to reality.
You laugh like a maniac because what just happened cant possibly be true, but is.
You're so angry at yourself, livid with your own faults and so beyond what mere humans call grief.
Agony is too kind a word for it.
You feel the call of darkness take over and you grab for whatever your hand may touch.
Harm.
Do yourself harm.
The body is all that's really left of you, all you have left to feel even though you cant actually feel a thing. At this point you're already gone.
The only thing to bring yourself out, to think, to feel an emotion that isnt completely pain, to drag yourself above the earth once again and witness the blood of your shame.
It makes you blink a few times, processing.
Back to earth it is calm, you're thinking again, you look around and see where you are, you never left.
Things fell apart around you but you never moved a muscle, aside to return clarity and then to clean yourself up.
Things are calm.
Everything quiet, peaceful.
Youre completely alone where you are.
But you've somehow found a way to fully accept and move on in a short amount of time.
You understand what you thought may never occur has finally, and you can remember.
You've experienced the world of emotions and survived.
You're sitting safe where you left yourself before the storm hit you. You contemplate all the damage around you, strong enough to walk again, ok enough to solve your situation with a clear mind.
Things may be healed now, things may be fixed or renewed.
Life goes on from this point a better day when you appreciate the regain of what you'd never actually lost.
The Moon and Sun shared Ecliptical Longitudes the night They murdered The child.

Beneath a stelliferous empyrean,
Like Sojourners among the quiescent Twilight, Mother and child, Ventured to meet the woman’s husband, the father of the child.

She, no more than five and ten years Old,
The child, a girl, of only months,
Lay swaddled across the Woman’s
*****, tucked inside a papoose.
A rustic device carefully woven
From wool and hide, in it contained a
Priceless world.

She cooed and clucked in the frigid
Night air.
The sound penetrated the
Spectral calm and was matched only
By the maternal soothing of a muted hum.
Together, they represented the
Heathen form of the wilderness,
The Tempi Madonna among the
Silver and shadow moonbeams that
Glimmered like the dust of diamonds
Across the river’s obsidian sheen.  

Ahead, where the river narrows,
The silence stirred and was broken.
Hushed voices rose from the outer
Dark.
The woman strained to listen.

(British Soldiers, she thought)

Foreign words...

        (Drunken and ravenous)

                         ...slithered from their mouths like Venom. Fear bloomed in the woman’s Chest.
Her heartbeat quickened.

        (Touched by the chill of terror)

Her eyes darted madly about the
Darkness.

         (Alone no longer)

Their  shadows manifested like
Smoke along the tree line.
Their
Features blurred in the darkness.
Their gestures muted.
Like birds of
Prey, they set motionless upon their
Perch along the stony shore.

I say, a man said. Indian children are natural born swimmers,
Capable at birth of swimming great distances.

Utter foolishness, old boy, another opined.

We will need proof of this claim, my good sir, an anonymous voice Quipped from somewhere in the dark.

She let escape from her full lips
The tiniest of shrieks.
Followed immediately
By
Sick
Regret.

(stupid girl, her mother’s voice echoed in the dark.
                             You always were too impulsive.)

Rage consumed her as
She struggled against the current.  
She tried to paddle for deeper
Water as the men broached
The black sheen of the river.

The moments passed by
In jagged surrealism.
There was no sound
When they pitched the woman
And child into the
Frigid abysm.

The splashing of water.
The gasping
For air.
The primal
Grapple and
Grunt of men.
The cold, pungent scent of
Fear and sweat mixed with the
Alcohol-stale air.
The twisting of
Hands that groped about the
Darkness.

         (Her rage now eclipsed by fear)

She inhaled.
Her body, numb.
Her appendages quaked.
Her body fading
As they fall upon her.
Their thick bodies
Blacked out the stars.
Their gaunt faces
Pinched and rucked in the
Moonlight
Reflected the fury, the
Hatred, and
The disgust for what would come next.
Their hands moved across her
Ravenous
Like demons as they
Groped at her small body
Beneath the choppy wash of the
River.

(A hand grazed her thigh and she shrieked in Terror. Another
         gnashed at her buttock. Another fell upon her back. Her mind
         reeled at the possibilities of what would need to come next.)

They tore at her clothing.
Her body jarred about the water as
She writhed against their grasps.
She clawed against the murk.                  
    
         (Escape the horror)

She released the paddle—

(Forever lost to the deep, useless to her now)

Hysterical animalistic thoughts
Trounced off their tongues as they
Laughed at her doom—

        (Like a pack of hyenas)

She kicked at them in nameless
Places.
She thrusted her hand into
The fabric where the child had been
Moments before cooing and clucking. 
Mere moments ago she had sang to the
Babe the same song her
Mother had once sung
To her.

             (she felt nothing where the child had been…)    

She struggled away from them.
Her mind frantic with pain, the cold,
And panic
For the child.
She no longer cared for
Herself, or what they would need to
Do with her body.
Her appendages
Flailed and churned in the dark water.
          
         (A single gasp of air followed by
              The burning inhale of water)

A shrill call to the child—

(a name lost to time)

Her voice cut through their maniacal
Laughter.
It echoed off the water and vanished,
Disappearing entirely
In the outer gloom of the wilderness.

        (like afterthoughts, lost)

She groped relentlessly among the
Water for the child.
The men, near
Frozen, lost interest and returned to
The adjacent shoreline.
It was more ****** that way.
They jeered at her,
Proud of themselves.
          
        (The seething lust of the mindless savage, she thinks)

Their mouths salivate
As they watched
Vicariously.
Her struggle
Became the current
For which she bore.
The impending death of the woman even
More satisfying than the feeling against their flesh of her cunning, wet crease that lies exposed between
Her brown legs.
They watch like wolves
Unable to reach their prey,
Desperate for fresh meat.
Despite the frigid cold,
Their *****, hard,
With the anticipation of death.

The woman clamored among the darkness
She searched for the child.
Heavy fingers fell upon woolen fabric
By chance—

(Hope bloomed in her constricted chest)

Her body finally beginning to seize
Exhaustion permeated
Her mind.
She freed the papoose
From the frozen depths and expelled
The last bit of energy she possessed
To swim to the far side of the shore,
Temporarily out of their reach.

The soldiers,
Quiet now,
Returned to the spectral woods.
They disappeared back down the
Black road from which they came.

She felt the blood as it began to
Return to her appendages, the pins And needles feeling erupting in them.
Her teeth clattered nearly exploding In her mouth.
Her body
Quaked Violently

         (The child, near in her mind, cried)

She reached for it.
Her chest,
Rising and
Falling,
Rapid like the river
As she inhaled the burning,
Frozen air.
The child let loose a cough and  
She clutched it
tighter to her *****.  

(Deny the river its prize)

A stream of consciousness,
Steadily slipped from her lips.

       (A great heathen prayer calling up some
                       Great Spirit
                                As she relentlessly brokered
                                            For a
                                       Life for a life)

The moments passed by like hours.
And the
Great Spirit, with
His wanton lust
For despair, did not manifest that night.

The child fell silent, then still.
The tears came now.
Blurred vision and
Angry sobs.
Darkness consumed entire.

The river flowed by her electric as if
Its lights descended from a place far
Beyond the black taciturn veil of
Night to reflect the merciless
Tragedies among the wretched souls of
The Maine Woods.
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