There is such thing as a healing round.
I won’t explain in detail as
A person does not speak of
Sacred things,
As if to assign form to what is
Better left
Shifting through the wind
Like the breath of God.

Better left to those whose
Ancestors passed down the songs
That shall not be sung in winter.

But I will speak of the
Splitting of my skin
At a feather’s edge
Bone whistle call,
Walls dissolved
And all the grief came pouring out.

Bent over, arms clutched across my Chest, sobbing now,
Tears wet the earth.

I finally allow in
The presence of my mother’s death

And a broader mourning
That I cannot define.

There is such thing as a healing round.

I am walking now
Footsteps quiet on the cathedral floor,
Faces in stained glass
Watching from lofty spires of marble and slick, gray stone.
Do their eyes follow my small, hesistant form?

I do not frequent churches and prefer to come alone

To enter a silence
In which all of the suffering
That this world
Has ever borne
Hangs heavy
Suspended in the resonance of
Great, imposing halls,
Vast oceans of sorrow, and here too,
Something that carries and lifts;

Perhaps, the love of God.

Heal us and forgive us
In our blindness
Take my hand and show me,
Again, the sunlit road
Where we can be found.

There is such thing as holy ground.

The water knows
Rushing between the rocks,
Between the wild, greening cliffs
Where gently a little Robin flits
And perches on the tangled brush
Beside the shore.

You belong here, she sings,
You belong
You belong

And there is such thing as holy ground

Always within it beauty
And a great sadness looming

And how is it that so few can trace the outlines of its form
Beneath the skin,
But you can
You can
You can?

Within slumber, you visit, though much more frantically than usual, but i still view you in a way where you dont bother disguising your grief.
I feel your dead-weight against my shoulder and it frightens me because i know with just one more burden, ill fall flat on my knees. Inferior emotionally like so many times before.

In this world, youre a tyrant, running around asking questions. Your uncertainty cannonballing into the ears of all my peers.
I understand and i sympathize bc i dont offer much condolence, im aware i leave you blinded behind my fear of you coming near.

All that surrounds is minor blackness amongst the finer, brighter things. Every planet within the galaxy rotating to platforms behind closed hinges.
We pick and choose our reality and physically adjust,
for a moment we receive all we ever wanted. But we just take it back everytime, letting lust gather dust.

We come back once again, and youre shaking from all the information you gathered from you trip. Another opinion, another lick.
You couldnt stand what my friends had said, all the worst of me condensed into single word answers, and the one your were awaiting was left hidden behind my tooth.

"Do you love me like i love you, or is this just another game you play?" you cried "Dont leave me in the dark, or ill just jump into it anyway."
This little carousel is spinning and you arent hesistant to leap, i watch your feet as they edge closer to the tip of your defeat. I stand motionless and speechless, but eager nonetheless. I want to tell you something but not the something you want to hear. But i guess the silence was louder than anything you could adhere.
You closed your eyes and tipped yourself and fell into the abyss, without thinking, i jumped after you. I couldnt stand not knowing where you'd land or if you'd miss.

I spring from blackout, vision ignited, and turn and see your face, your smiling with sleep still coating your eyes, desperate for the morning light and reveling in it's taste. I have to admit, its much sweeter than what i expected when you lept into the dark. Only to find our limbs entangled, certainty growing large.

The next time we met he arranged it for the park told me I must go otherwise he will show the pics;
I was a bit hesistant from the meeting before, but felt I had very little choice in the matter at the time. Ended up meeting him we walked around the park until we could find a quiet spot where he knew where we would not get bothered. He started again by taking my top off  again and ******* on my ******* I felt uncomfortable with the idea of doing anything outside in the public at first the cold wind was making my ******* *****. He slid his hands down my ***** and was playing with it quite rough and firm with his hands. Then told me to unzip his trousers and start rubbing his **** then asked me nicely
“can you **** my **** again please”
I tried to say no again
but this time he grabbed my hair and back of my head kept pushing my head forward towards his ****

“You will do it, otherwise you know what will happen”

After ******* his **** and making him *** he ordered to swallow and was getting more angry as I kept spitting it out, the gagging sensation was making me feel sick.

But just as I was about to leave as I had enough, he switched on his nicer personality and begged me to stay with him; he wanted to have **** *** with me this time but I didn't feel so comfortable with the idea. He grabbed his **** and pushed it into my ***. I felt a huge tinge of pain; I begged him to stop as it didn't feel right He kept going to the point where I started to cry from the pain; his *** was filling me up further he told me that I belong to him now and whatever he wants to do I must do as I was his servant and he was my master. He said from now on I was his ***** and kept on calling me it and If I protested with the idea of giving him what he wanted he quickly showed me the pic he had of me before and that only made me wince  even more.

Live the day
carpe diem?
but it's a hybrid
a cross-over
a carry-forward
from yesterday
the day
and days
before yesterday

the work-in-progress
that has to be completed
and what's undone
will be in transit
in the continuum of time
for today doesn't end
with a full-stop
but with a comma
to affix itself to endless
ones to follow. Question marks
fill its pages interspersed
with semi-colons that abound-
and exclamations are not
gestures of joy or triumph
but more like lamentations
and heavy sighs-

24 hours
it makes no sense
it's a device designed
to fragment time
and moments- the day
merely holds activities
in suspense- nothing
is perfectly done

the day is but a stop-over
a page in the calendar of time
part of a song or a symphony
awaiting fine-tuning
a book that's unfinished
a hesistant poem in the making

everyone is a performer
the stage- curtain
never falls like
the end of a show  

that has to wait
but none knows
when.

Mingle live aside: Autre scenic view . . . Hesistant view visit personified peony? Camera, Mingle lo! doorway view. Sedna Mingle harm here doorway free? Mingle, view, jouissance. Memory, og, conceal personified driving. Forbid view noetic om tune rainovers? There Mingle live. Mingle live there.