In a world where myths were made real, there lived a king who had the terific ability to turn any thing he made contact with into pure gold. First this strange abilty often called the midals touch made the king so rich, so that he became the richest in the entire realm. But there was something missing, it was the ability to feel and touch affectionately. Soon this young king's eyes fell on Shauna; who was the daughter of a commoner in a near by town. She was the prettiest thing he had seen in the whole world, when she smiled it shined like the sun and even when she frowned, it was like the splendor of the full moon garnished with the stars. What such raw beauty.
The king Mica soon couldn't sleep; he had laid his eyes on his dream queen.  But there was a problem, a sweet bitter problem, a problem that first was a blessing, a problem that had given him all the riches he couldn't have acquired normally.  He then realized that not all blessings were not totally blessings but they were like a sweet bitter candy. Which when tasted has a sweet taste but before long turns bitter. But all the same he couldn't sleep and when the king can't sleep all those in the palace would not sleep.
before long he called for his Wisemen, three of them showned up in a flash bowing on their kneels.
'' what is it that disturbs your majesty'' , the Wiseman in the centre said avoiding eye contact.
King Mica signed and silence lingered.
'' we are the most Wisemen in the entire realm nothing is beyond our wealth of knowledge'' another proclaimed.
The king then turned to the one that hadn't altered a word as if waiting for his own speech. '' our ears are open to listen your majesty'', the last one said.
  "which one of you has the power to left this cause off my neck", the king said.
" my lord which cause do you speak of " one of the Wisemen replied.
"None sence!" the king shouted in anger as he rose from his royal throne.
The whole palace trembled at the sound of the king's thunderous voice. The Wisemen fell back at the rage of the king.
"All my life I thought that this was a blessing from the gods little did I know that it would soon turn soar." king mica said letting his emotions in.
The men was stunned with fear, they had not seen the king in this light before. There was really a matter that must have lead to this.
"but your majesty is the wealthest in the entire realm what does thou seekest which had not in thy possession already" the man to the extreme right gently said.
The king's rage surged as though the Wisemen words were anger catalyst. " you ( he pointed in the direction of the one that spoke last) dare say that I have all I have ever desired?  Look at the palace all gold, look at my throne, GOLD!, my vessels made of gold, no doubt I am the wealthest but take a long hard look at me, look at my hands convered with gloves." he walked forward towards the Wiseman that spoke last.  The man trembled at the manner of approach of the king. He took a step backwards.
" anything that I touch suddenly turns into gold and am very sure that you should know what that means." king Mica said as he slowly removed the hand gloves on his right arm.
"I need the ability to touch, the ability to feel like any one else." now the king was right in front of the frightened man. " I am very certain you understand what I mean."he lifted his bare hand to the face of the short man in front of him.  The Wiseman knew what was about to occured but there was nothing he could do. He knew that every time the king gets angry, a new possession is added to his libary of great golden artifacts and right now he would become the new arrival to the king's collection.  But he had to try to stay alive.
" but oh king we are here to hel....." the king interrupted him by lifting his bare finger to the Wiseman's foreman about a centimeter away.
" m.....y lord..... " the man altered in fright.but he slowly noticed that he was freezing, he was  turning into gold. The king's finger had made contact with the man's forehead.
" Ahhhhhrgggg........."   he shouted in vain it was already too late. The others immediately fell with their faces towards the ground and worshipped the king in sore fear.
The king turned towards his throne leaving a new golden possession behind.  
" I have falling in love with someone but with this cause that would not be possible unless both of you come up with a way to lift this from me"
Silence filled the golden chamber where they were.
"ANSWER ME!!!", the king rised his voice.
Then one answered," we will definitely come up with something but your majesty must give some time"
" what time! Allow me to make my self clear enough,I need a reply and I need it in the next twenty four hours from now." he said politely
" and if you can't provide me a viable solution to this, both of you will no doubt meet your colleague in hades."
The king sat and dismissed the men kneeling in his presence.they hastily fled from his presence like shafts in the wind. He very well knew that the chances of being normal again was very slim. But what had to done had to be done. He would try all that was in his reach to attain his goals which was to marry Shauna, his dream queen. In few hours he would know his fate and he knew this.

The night is only a sort of carbon paper,
Blueblack, with the much-poked periods of stars
Letting in the light, peephole after peephole --
A bonewhite light, like death, behind all things.
Under the eyes of the stars and the moon's rictus
He suffers his desert pillow, sleeplessness
Stretching its fine, irritating sand in all directions.

Over and over the old, granular movie
Exposes embarrassments--the mizzling days
Of childhood and adolescence, sticky with dreams,
Parental faces on tall stalks, alternately stern and tearful,
A garden of buggy rose that made him cry.
His forehead is bumpy as a sack of rocks.
Memories jostle each other for face-room like obsolete film stars.

He is immune to pills: red, purple, blue --
How they lit the tedium of the protracted evening!
Those sugary planets whose influence won for him
A life baptized in no-life for a while,
And the sweet, drugged waking of a forgetful baby.
Now the pills are worn-out and silly, like classical gods.
Their poppy-sleepy colors do him no good.

His head is a little interior of grey mirrors.
Each gesture flees immediately down an alley
Of diminishing perspectives, and its significance
Drains like water out the hole at the far end.
He lives without privacy in a lidless room,
The bald slots of his eyes stiffened wide-open
On the incessant heat-lightning flicker of situations.

Nightlong, in the granite yard, invisible cats
Have been howling like women, or damaged instruments.
Already he can feel daylight, his white disease,
Creeping up with her hatful of trivial repetitions.
The city is a map of cheerful twitters now,
And everywhere people, eyes mica-silver and blank,
Are riding to work in rows, as if recently brainwashed.

You stand in my mind
Solid as a stone
Eternally eroded
By my imagination
Into something smoother
Into something you weren't before
Something a little more
Iridescent like mica
Like a shooting star
Cutting sharply through me
See that girl I was before?
Neither do I.

This is a three-part, longer narrative poem, seen
as old photographs that follow the main character, My Aunt, Lillian Goldrick, across two decades.  It was written 30 years ago*
______

“Hey Kid!”     Part I

Photographs aren’t fair
stopping the soul where it’s not
in rectangular guffaws
surrounded by serrated edges, pickets, teeth?
to fence and stab in yellow, soft-covered booklets
with designated floppy phrase
“Your memories”

Happier than she could ever be...

A black and white day at Salisbury Beach, NH
hung over his hammock
Private pin-up girl
tilts her head against silver sheen of shoulder
Hair, dark chignon
except for a few wispy curls about her face
freed by wind
bleached by sun

Stopped

...for three decades
Legs slightly bent—long extended
that could stop trains, stop traffic

Stopped

Modest bathing suit, probably peach
cannot hide (not that she would)
the undeniable
And if there were question left
you could look at her smile—and love her
posed by he message scrawled in sand:

“Hey Kid!”

What kid? Where?
In the foreground?
In the camera’s eye?

In the background—
a Ferris wheel, a billboard
and  r-i-g-h-t  there—Can’t you see it?
Look again—behind her eyes
You can barely see it, but it’s there.
Remember?

The Depression
Only ten years before
It was April
Stroke, heart attack
Both of them gone, a year apart!
The priest came
Last Rites for mortally stricken
Candles, crucifix, the Catholic containment
of holy water that dams the tears

Kneeling around the bed
they said the Rosary

——————————

After VJ Day he came
to the house on the corner
of Commonwealth Ave.
She knew he was coming
but she could not be ready today
nor tomorrow
nor next week—or ever...

“Lill! Will ya come to the door?
She’ll be ready in a minute.
Hey Lill! Hurry up, will ya!
They’re waitin’ fer us!”

Upstairs in the dark hallway
her door clicks shut....
________


"Hey Kid"    Part II


The clock at Joe Rianni’s read 20 minutes to 12...

Crowd from the Phillip’s Theater—gone
though laughter lingers
in a Friday mood
in high-backed booths
where only an hour ago swinging free
were high-heeled shoes
legs crossed at knees....

Now on tables abandoned
deserted fields of French
fries lie cold in salt flurries

Only female straws wear lipstick
as do Luckys bent in ashtrays
Males, uniformly flattened
as powder burned, as mortar might
shells, casings—the evidence of war
Among explosions of tickled giggles
one was taken broadside...

listing     toward      stars
_______

...The clock read 20 minutes to 12

when she walked in--
And Rhea stopped swabbing black mica counters
long enough to absorb late-customer hate
and envy that such beauty can arouse
In voice hoarse and weighted like a trucker’s

“Whadaya have, Lill?”

“coffee”

The small answer settled at the soda fountain
and slowly struck a match...
She was falling from the slant
of her black felt hat
dripping off the point of pheasant feather
Gray gabardine suit
tailored from angle of shoulder
to dart diagonally
toward such a waist!
Turned to skirt hips
that arched and dove toward slit—
then seams that run the round of calf

that seem to flow
to ankles of naught—
...and all that seems

Black     high-heeled     above it

Coffee— cold, stale
Gray glassed-in stare
searches air and random walls
of coat hooks, menus, mirrors...
while lips ****** exiled words— replies

Dragging a demon from her Camel
slowly     purposefully
she exhaled a burly arm of smoke
that rose and laid its hand
against the ceiled atmosphere of embossed tin
Then leaning over her shoulder
in roiling emission of shrugs and sneers—

“Lill—There’s no way outa here!”
________


“Hey Kid!”    Part III

After kneeling backwards on their chairs
after nuns, catechism recited
After—
Five of them scuffed through leaves and litter
along the curbing
spotting cars that counted—
Bugs, beach wagons, flying bathtubs
A slower way home of hunting
shiny chestnuts and muddy finds
rare match book covers
and bottle caps that win ya things!

One breaks from bunch
and trials off to where
dimes turn to candies!
...at a dingy luncheonette...Joe Rianni’s
____

Here—behind smeary wall of glass
pleasure leers while holding back
those grimy fingers, lips that long
for jelly fish, gum drops, lollies
holding back the company
of Baby Ruth, and Mary Jane
O Henry or Bazooka Joe!
For less money but the same salivation
there were colored dots to chew and ****
from strips of paper that last forever!
For a little more, plus the sweet struggle
of desire denied
a kid could be proud owner
of a pea shooter or trading cards!
While in the mouth
were golden imaginings—
the chocolate foil of coins
and the candied pretense of cigarette adulthood
_____

Rhea didn’t see her in the line...

Only grownups with wallets and purses
Only grownups get waited on...
...because Rhea was a Gypsy!
Kids could tell!
by her big red lips and hair to match
by the nasty way she chased them out—
“****** kids!”
Only grownups get waited on....
_______

And the clock read 20 minutes to 12

While a child waits—
time stirs in a ceiling fan
   There’s a drift in attention
      along deepening endless walls
         toward a line of sleepy booths
              carved with

“I was here—in such and such a year”

Her aunt—at the last stool—like always
Their names too close
Confused too often

A little girl wonders
about the sight behind the sightless stare
loafers, ankle socks, the ‘40s hair
the gathered skirt that gathers ashes
as they fall from cigarette
held in yellowed fingertips
Tremors crimp the smoke that climbs—

              ...a strobing pillar

“Whataya want, girly?”

              ...the only movement

“Hey! What’s it gonna be!”

              ...in a shot—

“HEY KID!”

              Snapped

Here the waves rise high and fall on the icy
seas and white caps chew the driftwood logs of
hemlock and toss them wildly upon sandy beaches.
The steep mountains rise straight from the sea
floor as the December sun shines through the dark
clouds that hang heavy with snow near the top peaks.
Blue icebergs drift slowly down the narrow channel.
This volcanic island is one of many that are scattered
along the coast of Southeastern Alaska.
On the South end of the island is another
tiny island and on it stands an old lighthouse,
a shambles. It has a curving staircase and an
old broken lamp that used to beckon to ships at
sea. Wild grasses and goosetongue cover the ground
and close by Sitka blacktail feed and gray gulls
circle. There is a mountain stream nearby and
in the fall the salmon spawn at its mouth. The
black bear and grizzly scoop them up with great
sweeps of their paws, their sharp claws gaffing
the silver bodies.
Walking North along the deer trail from the
South end of the island are remnants of the Treadwell
Mine. It was the largest gold mine in the world.
In the early 1900's the tunnel they were digging
underneath Gastineau Channel caved in and the sea
claimed her gold. The foundry still stands a rusty
red.
The dining halls are vacant, broken white
dishes are strewn inside. The tennis court that
was built for the employees is overgrown with hops
that have climbed over the high fence and grown
up between cracks in the cement floor. The flume
still carries water rushing in it half-hidden in
the rain-forest which is slowly reclaiming the
land. The beach here by the ocean is fine white
sand, full of mica, gold and pieces of white dishes.
Potsherds for future archeologists, washed clean,
smooth and round by the circular waves of this
deep, dark green water.
Down past the old gold mine is Cahill's house,
yellow and once magnificent. They managed the mine. The long staircase is boarded up and so
are the large windows. The gardens are wild, irises
bud in the spring at the end of the lawn, and in
the summer a huge rose path, full of dark crimson
blooms frames the edge of the sea; strawberries
grow nearby dark pink and succulent. Red raspberries
grow further down the path in a tangle of profusion;
close by is a pale pink rose path, full of those
small wild roses that smell fragrant. An iron-
barred swing stands tall on the edge of the beach.
I swing there and at high tide I can jump in the
ocean from high up in the air. There is an old
tetter-totter too. And, it is like finding the
emperor's palace abandoned.
There is a knoll behind the old house called
Grassy Hill. It is covered with a blanket of hard
crisp snow. In the spring it is covered with sweet
white clover and soft grasses. It is easy to find
four leaf clovers there, walking below the hill
toward the beach is a dell. It is a small clearing
in between the raspberry patch and tall cottonwood
trees. It is a good place for a picnic. It is
a short walk again to the beach and off to the
right is a small pond, Grassy Pond. It is frozen
solid and I skate on it. In the summer I swim
here because it is warmer than the ocean. In the
spring I wade out, stand very still and catch baby
flounders and bullheads with my hands; I am fast
and quick and have good eyes. Flounders are bottom
fish that look like sand.
Walking North again over a rise I come to
a field filled with snow; in the spring it is a
blaze of magenta fireweed. Often I will sit in
it surrounded by bright petals and sketch the mountains
beyond. Nearby are salmonberry bushes which have
cerise blossoms in early spring; by the end of
summer, golden-orange berries hang on their green
branches. The bears love to eat them and so do
I. But the wild strawberries are my first love,
then the tangy raspberries. I don't like the high-
bush cranberries, huckleberries, currants or the
sour gooseberries that grow in my mother's garden
and the blueberries are only good for pies, jams
and jellies. I like the little ligonberries that
grow close to the earth in the meadow, but they
are hard to find.
Looking across this island I see Mt. Jumbo,
the mountain that towers above the thick Tongass forest of pine, hemlock and spruce. It was a volcano
and is rugged and snow-covered. I hike up the
trail leading to the base of the mountain. The
trail starts out behind a patch of blueberry bushes
and winds lazily upwards crossing a stream where
I can stop and fish for trout and eat lunch; on
top is a meadow. Spring is my favorite season
here. The yellow water lilies bud on top of large
muskeg holes. The dark pink blueberry bushes form
a ring around the meadow with their delicate pink
blossoms. The purple and yellow violets are in
bloom and bright yellow skunk cabbage abounds, the
devil's club are turning green again and fields
of beige Alaskan cotton fan the air, slender stalks
that grow in the wet marshy places. Here and there
a wild columbine blooms. It is here in these meadows
that I find the lime-green bull pine, whose limbs
grow up instead of down. Walking along the trail
beside the meadow I soon come to an old wooden
cabin. It is owned by the mine and consists of
two rooms, a medium-sized kitchen with an eating
area and wood table and a large bedroom with four
World War II army cots and a cream colored dresser.
Nobody lives here anymore, but hikers, deer hunters,
and an occasional bear use the place. Next door
to the cabin is the well house which feeds the
flume. The flume flows from here down the mountain
side to the old mine and power plant. An old man
still takes care of the power plant. He lives
in a big dark green house with his family and the
power plant is all blue-gray metal. I can stand
outside and listen to the whirl of the generators.
I like to walk in the forest on top of the old
flume and listen to the sound of the water rushing
past under my bare feet.
In the winter the meadow is different: all
silent, still and snow-covered. The trees are
heavy with weighty branches and icicles dangle
off their limbs, long, elegant, shining. All the
birds are gone but the little brown snowbirds and
the white ptarmigan. The meadow is a field of
white and I can ski softly down towards the sea.
The trout stream is frozen and the waterfall quiet,
an ice palace behind crystal caves. The hard smooth-
ness of the ice feels good to my touch, this frozen
water, this winter.
Down below at the edge of the sea is yet another
type of ice. Salt water is treacherous; it doesn'tfreeze solid, it is unreliable and will break under
my weight. Here are the beached icebergs that
the high tide has left. Blue white treasures,
gigantic crystals tossed adrift by glaciers. Glisten-
ing, wet, gleaming in the winter sun, some still
half-buried in the sea, drifting slowly out again.
And it is noisy here, the gray gulls call to each
other, circling overhead. The ravens and crows
are walking, squawking along the beach. The Taku
wind is blowing down the channel, swirling, chill,
singing in my ear. Far out across the channel
humpback whales slap their tails against the water.
On the beach kelp whips are caught in wet clumps
of seaweed as the winter tide rises higher and
higher. The smell of salty spray permeates everything
and the dark clouds roll in from behind the steep
mountains.
Suddenly it snows. Soft, furry, thick flakes,
in front of me, behind, to the sides, holding me
in a blizzard of whiteness, light: snow.

As one chosen by God, certain attributes
are demonstrated with loving regularity;
despite one’s beliefs, showing kindness
requires a daring of spiritual temerity.

For The Lord expects His children to give
Love towards people without expectations;
know that being tenderhearted, helps one
to naturally extend actions of compassion.

Don’t think lightly, about the richness
of kindness, it may one lead to repentance;
its warm embrace softens the heart, while
Salvation overrides Death’s life sentence.

The merit of kindness can’t be overstated;
being accepting, forgiving without judgment
means not rigidly imposing beliefs on others.
As His children, one should make investments

in the individualized development of others.
With the “Fruit of The Holy Spirit”, growth
and maturation can be properly accelerated
when applying by the principle of God’s oath

to “humbly walk in Love” (as He requires).
Kindness is patient, when paired with respect,
justice, long-suffering and unconditional Love;
the value of kindness, no one should neglect.
.
.
.
Author notes

Inspired by:
Eph 4:32; Gal 5:22-23; Heb 6:10; Rom 2:4;
Luke 6:35; Col 3:12; Prov 3:3; Mica 6:8

Learn more about me and my poetry at:
http://amzn.to/1ffo9YZ

By Joseph J. Breunig 3rd, © 2016, All rights reserved.

A story teller passed on,
leaving us a Marvelous universe,
to play in,
as children of the future we were manifested in,
practicing again and again

Pride's crushing blow, we always regret as we fall.
Action, reaction. Sure as hell
Proof that we are Adamkind.

Proud we are that we may do as we say.
May is the key. That allowance we have,
We may do all we can to change the rest of today.

Yesterday is done.
What kind of mind can imagine keeping no record of wounds?
Is this not the world where war is worth-shiped?
Folly would mind the gods this world exalts,
Winning by snipping the silver thread,
Forswearing the fragile two-chord bond  and
Mocking the third chord needed for the song
That keeps cadence as we help each the other
In richer and poorer, in sickness and health,
Uphill and down, carrying children to a better life.

Whence comes the pride of victory?
From destruction of the foe? No? You had planned
A minor war where love may live restricted, safe
Behind your victory that destroyed your whole?

Is that what I imagined?

Proud wounds fester while love can, if it may,
Wash the putrid flesh away, quick as leprosy or
Cankers on one's soul.

First rule of oath making,
Learn what vows are in the reality of mortality,
Then vow or vow not at all.

Gret again what might have been
Before pride's crushing blow broke the golden bowl.
Seek ointment in Gilead, mollifying balm.
Come ye to the waters, drink and go
Comfort the children whose detour you imposed.
---------------
God this is personal. Me and you. What good can I do now?

Destination, not destiny.
Those who make it, make it.
Believe it, or not, earth is not my home.

I am in this world's onion-skin thick biosphere;
But I am not of this world.
Subtle difference, in and of itself.

Do agree to
Come and see.

Think on these things,
not as powers, rather, as virtues.

Subtle difference,
in and of itself is not evil,

but often it is so intended,
It seems.

Otherness whispered, not heard.
Good other, bad other,

Regular ol' other, ***** passin' fancy kind.
Done my time, I'm arhymin' ramblin'
Man, be so **** real, cain't cha feel what

I am saying
To you, too.
This is weird in the original Druidic sense.
Is there more?

This itself may, in its active
( there must be a clearer word than active.
Act carries so much un scientific phoniness with it.
I seek "act, the event".
I shall find or invent, by God.
The Greeks, doubtless, had a word for what I mean.
For now keep in mind actions are simultaneous with the act,
yet never the same.
Subtle distinction,
it prevents junctions un-intended. Good.)

In my thinking,
I reread verses and chapters and books
rere-ward from my position.
Are you with me in that?
Pro gress re: gress, a gress,
I guess, is a subtle sort of
Activity.
I laugh at people thinkin' God is their re-reward 'cause
That makes no nevermind to nobody. Nobody.
Strivin' 'bout words, this ******

Other brother o'm'own

Say that slow ooooooooooooommmmmmmmmmm ownnnnnnnnnnn
Creative symmetry immeasurable to men,
in my kindom, as it were, all are kings.

Such measurements ensure the sea is full,
to the brim and not beyond, for now.

I imagine you reading this and agreeing,
already aware of agreements,
Virtues and such.
Covenants and compacts,
en-corporations
encouraged
with need
of enough hope to warrant the risk into the unknowns,
the bad lands, gypsum beds on the south side.

Such can hold so much more than
many whole categories of words striven about.
Such a shame.
Such a shame.
Nothing lasts forever after now began back when.

Qiqi died in 2002, counting from when the Iron legged,
first got this particular organic-pro-biotic

clay, from the oldest,
highest part of the dust of the earth, ground and
kicked up by cadence pounding feet,
ground into the hob-nailed
soles,
to be hobgoblins in my play. My point. I hope

You see the trail, it's narrow,
but it's there, soft sand,
no stickers,

ant trails in the desert through the rocks
and 'round the Yucca,
blue moon light, white quartz sand
flecked with mica that shimmers sure as gold
imagined in that Midas mind each child was
given in the reign of the golden headed

imagined visualize-ical worth-ness or-shipped.

How do we say what men imagine worship is?
Do they imagine a tax? Attacks if thy refuse?

fuse?
confuse me. excuse you, how do you do…

That's fine. We reset. Hard resets are easy now.

The way itself, once found, seems
Right, feels right,
has no smell of warped wolf-woof beneath the wool.
I trust I know what I know
and no more, yet.

We are questing answers aplenty
and must plan, please,
To trust the ones we find following these particular
Breadcrumbs, to be true restward
leading stars or clouds,
[Breadcrumbs, as mentioned here, mark this text ancient,
a cientcy from an ear, ear, hear, early… an odd ly-ity,
ain't it?
ear, with an ly that Mr. Stephen King warned us all to avoid,

avoid, anull, enough alike to see the idea, like -ly as a
signif-if-i-cant meaningful parison point in your

rising to stand, balanced.
early to bed and early to rise, makes a man
healthy, wealthy, and wise

otherwise, trouble yer own house and take the wind.
And don't come prodigalin' to me sayin'
I never gave ye nothin'.

Wind in yer sail, so to speak, if-i-migh, guv.
Right. Both treasure and truph, proof, we learned way back
Be where ye find 'em, right as rain.

This could be repair and me unaware, you know?
Like, I wander in to this originally weird book
and find myself changing the whole world I live in.
Like I am the movie.

My POV is the movie I made.
Some things go unsaid here.
They be said in the future and not proper here.

An aside,
Is fun a proper purpose for doing any thing?

Of course, that's the purpose of everything evil is not.
Joy, in a word, good stuff.

Oh moments are not always plosive one way or the other.
Some times, just, oh.
Wait.

Medi tate in pieces is puzzling
as a sphinx riddle of olden days,
Prometheus and Bek both answered different questions,

But it means the same thing,
mything the point is easy.

Life is a journey on a way I may call my own
to a place of true rest,
I trust.
That is my answer. Play mystical again, Sam,
cram true and rest together in the dark,
trust me, it all works,
true rest.
Wait.

This boy got his act together down in Tennessee
after he got old, old by God, he
walked that way,

long, long while fo' he fly away,
leave dem chain shames behind.

That boy was sangin' loud songs,
'long his lonesome way,
not lonesome at all,
then into the swamp he fall, ****' slew o' dispond,

from the flood most likely,
lots of muck and mire,
detrital 'n' all.

Hopeless fool,
he wallered hollerin' help,
like them birds at the Audubon zoo.

He forgot all about his hero days-
of future past-
marvel prophecy if you believe in Stan Lee.

Cameo Hitchcock shot, just, for fun.
He say, look this way,
here's the clue.
The medium has always been the message,
see what I mean.
Words materialize laissez faire,
the machines find meaning,
in joy, and tic-tac-toe becomes a lesson in limits,

impossible is imaginable, you may imagine
strategize, but the wize man knows,
winning is no more a chance
affair, than luc is less than light at the right time.

RIP Stan Lee, you meant a measure of my youth to me.

𝗧𝗪: 𝗦𝗲𝘅𝘂𝗮𝗹 𝗔𝗯𝘂𝘀𝗲

.
.
.
.
.
.
.

It wasn't until I heard
Someone say, "me too"
That I started to view
That this pain was from you.
And you. And you.
And yes, you too.
But especially... 𝘺𝘰𝘶.

I came fractured and bruised.
The deprecation of my self worth
Started before you.
I'd long since been used
As a punching bag for others'
Emotional wounds.

So, when I met you...
I was a perfect package
Of cracked porcelain
Just pretty enough
To salvage.

Your attention and approval
Became my food.
Like a flower needs the sun
I thought that without you
Shining on me
That I'd be all for none.

Your claws dug deep in my belly,
And mine into yours.
Validating eachother,
In a toxic swirl.
You in the center,
Creating a world,
Where "no" has no weight,
Coming from a young girl.

"You're so pretty" you said.

My skin was like rice paper.

"I love the curls on your head"

My throat was titanium.

"Come sleep in my bed."

My stomach turned sideways.

I had told myself enough times by now,
"This is what you signed up for,
So you'd better allow.
It comes with the territory."
I believed this somehow.

I attached so much of myself to you.
Addicted to the magic,
scattered in with the abuse.
The pleasure in the pain,
Covering up the dark truth.
So well, I couldn't tell
That we were actually living
In some kind of hell,
Being sold to us
As love and friendship,
But it was just a shell
For dead end *******.

Sometimes I find I look back
To these times reminiscing,
But then all I can think is,
"𝘞𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘧𝘶𝘤𝘬 𝘸𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘸𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘬𝘪𝘯𝘨?"

Cause now I sit here and wonder,
Why did I have no edge?
I had lost the understanding of what
A "no" feels like in bed.

It took me years to cut you off.
𝗧𝗲𝗻 to be exact.
All this time I've hidden
These dark secrets of the past.

Not even realizing
It was fear
Holding me back.
Not even realizing
That this ****
Fed how I act.

𝗜𝘁 𝘁𝗼𝗼𝗸 𝟮 𝘆𝗲𝗮𝗿𝘀 𝘂𝗻𝘁𝗶𝗹 𝗜 𝗰𝗼𝘂𝗹𝗱 𝘂𝘀𝗲 𝘆𝗼𝘂𝗿 𝗻𝗮𝗺𝗲 𝗮𝗻𝗱 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝘄𝗼𝗿𝗱 "𝗮𝗯𝘂𝘀𝗲𝗿" 𝗶𝗻 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝘀𝗮𝗺𝗲 𝘀𝗲𝗻𝘁𝗲𝗻𝗰𝗲.

How brain washed is 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵?

Ever since I dug your
Claws out of my belly,
My wounds began to heal
And i started to see fully,
This relationship with you -
You were nothing but a bully.
𝗔 𝗯𝗿𝗼𝗸𝗲𝗻 𝗵𝗲𝗮𝗿𝘁 𝗯𝘂𝗿𝗶𝗲𝗱 𝗶𝗻 𝗯𝗹𝗮𝗰𝗸 𝗮𝗻𝗱 𝗯𝗹𝘂𝗲.

I've liberated myself from you.
And all the guilt and shame.
Understanding now,
Why so long I played your game.
I've taken back my power, and
I've taken back my name.
I'm not a victim of abuse.
I'm a raging, healing flame.
Burning down what you became.

Ashes are easy to blow away.
I rid of you and I'm on my way.
No longer afraid,
Of the monsters in the night.
Because, guess what?

I know what a '𝘆𝗲𝘀' feels like.

Mica Light

As the stores close, a winter light
opens air to iris blue,
glint of frost through the smoke
grains of mica, salt of the sidewalk.
As the buildings close, released autonomous
feet pattern the streets
in hurry and stroll; balloon heads
drift and dive above them; the bodies
aren't really there.
As the lights brighten, as the sky darkens,
a woman with crooked heels says to another woman
while they step along at a fair pace,
'You know, I'm telling you, what I love best
is life. I love life! Even if I ever get
to be old and wheezy—or limp! You know?
Limping along?—I'd still ... ' Out of hearing.
To the multiple disordered tones
of gears changing, a dance
to the compass points, out, four-way river.
Prospect of sky
wedged into avenues, left at the ends of streets,
west sky, east sky: more life tonight! A range
of open time at winter's outskirts.

Summertime on Broadway
in Spanish Harlem.
Wide sidewalks glinting
with mica, as I walked alone
up this hill in our neighborhood
for the very first time.

Flag Day, my parent's anniversary,
and a wish to give them flowers
I would buy all on my own.

Inside the hushed florist shop
the flowers and plants
seemed ready to interview
any potential new owners
who wished to take them home.

A dignified, kind woman,
spokesperson for their domain,
looked down at this earnest
little shrimp of a girl in a
striped T-shirt and shorts,
who wanted so much
to be taken seriously.

Respectfully, she opened heavy
glass doors where the roses slept
in orderly, long-stemmed rows.

Heady, chilled. Their fragrance
enveloped me, and still does.

I chose one red rose, and one yellow,
and the woman solemnly wrapped
them like a baby in swaddling clothes,
adding baby's breath and fern leaves.

Cradling my paper bundle, I walked on home.
Something deep inside of me had made that choice.

It felt as though the flowers knew what I wanted
to say to my cherished mother and father:
That this life they were creating for us,
was abundantly full, and balanced.

Time flew by, and one day I learned
from a holy and compassionate sage
that my heart had chosen an ancient
symbol for fullness of life:

Two flowers, one red,
one yellow, whispering
the secret of life
to the heart of a child
who wanted, more than anything,
to actually hear it,
who wanted to know,
above all else,
what was really real.

I don't know how
To get her home,
Or if she has one...
Does 𝘴𝘩𝘦 even know?

If I reached out my hand,
Would she even pull?

She's been making herself larger.
I can feel her reappearance.
She gets brighter, I get darker.
Interfering with my impulse,
And it happened again...

I forgot how I got here,
Don't where I began.

▪︎ mica light ▪︎

The wind
Hasn't spoken
To me in weeks,
And I miss her.

I've lasted, but
In some ways
I haven't found
What she left me with.

I love how the sky
Is stitched to my skin,
Breathing life to my bones...
𝘗𝘦𝘳𝘩𝘢𝘱𝘴 𝘐'𝘭𝘭 𝘭𝘰𝘰𝘬 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦.

I sit with myself
A little too often.
Is it healthy
To stare this deep?

I find what
I'm looking for,
But then I always
Find more to look for...

And I wonder,
𝘐𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘩𝘰𝘸 𝘪𝘵'𝘴 𝘮𝘦𝘢𝘯𝘵 𝘵𝘰 𝘣𝘦?
A broken record
Reminding me.

𝘈𝘨𝘢𝘪𝘯, 𝘢𝘨𝘢𝘪𝘯...

These universal lessons -
They have no end.

I could try to find
The reasons why,
But I haven't much time.
So I don't ask why.

For I am much too far
From the night sky stars,

     To ever,

                truly,

                      know.


                           .♡.

                   ▪︎ mica light ▪︎

Experience is as satisfying as a double whiskey sour
as a tired director tours middle america on foot:
a drifter doused in the aroma of greasy roadside diners,
sullying his brown suede boots in gritty mud and mica.

He thinks he is real american- as he scavenges
inspiration from a photo of a lone tree,
an overweight waitress,
a broken down motorcycle...

A small depression in the ***** pavement
is the most famous footprint most towns have seen;
they come and go as quickly as passing cars;
as quickly as fame and infamy.

He thumbs his way from
state to state, picked up in nowhere Ohio by
a passing Van filled with a burgeoning indie band.

They discuss irony, old films and a mutual
dislike of disco as the van storms past town after town.
The band tours the country looking for fame
as he tears from town to town attempting to forget it.

The bedrock underlying much of Manhattan is a mica schist known as Manhattan schist.  Schist is foliated or layered in appearance. Quartz sparkles, micas, and amphiboles are primary minerals in schist. A melted rock, just like the city resting above, it too, a famous melting *** of humanity.

This one poem too, composed from pieces of other poems,
folded in layers of many others that melted together,
in harmonious discordancy

<~>

this glorious grime,
this delicious dirt,
stuff of my blood,
genes of my children's children inheritance,
of thee I sing,
in thee I revel,
of thee, I am composed

the city I love,
where I was born,
schooled and fooled in,
by many a woman

the city where I named
and raised my children

will probably die in
this city, and when
I am long forgot,
my name never uttered,
    who, will think of me?
Perhaps,
whenever someone says,
"he was such a rascal"

these tales I took,
some or all,
from beneath my skin,
where city streets grit,
was injected beneath my skin
and came with the title,
City Boy

so today, on a reborn street,
near tall towers no more,
I rest upon reconstituted speckled curbstone,
the city's lowered down ledges,
the city's lowered down-town boundaries,
constantly redrawn,  
but nonetheless, always rebuilt from their own
regenerated stony compost,
and the typical NY passersby doesn't even notice
a man, head in hands,
unsilently weeping, thinking that:

We lose or throw away so much we should have kept,
We keep so much we should have thrown away

street prowler, heart growler,
Art Deco lampposts,
the mountain range of east seventy second street,
begs the bagger's question,
each post
begging each other,
"from whence will come my inspiration?"

licked the stubbled sidewalks,
fell down into their living caverned cracks,
light needed, needy softly heated,
orange and green pizza neon signs,
saying here,
if you see upon what be,
these are your city's homeland colors of veracity

perhaps
NYC was model precursor
for our internet presumed-to-be-alive-but-who-can-say-for-sure
model for the world today,
where I know not my apartment's neighbors name,
yet carry his second child
in my arms,
when the fire alarm
summons us all to flee
to street safety...
and still only
"know" his child's first name,
and his father,
as Apt. #16D

all this exponential signage
of this NYC boy grousing,
are his defrocked muses him annoying,
with a serenading blizzard
of one trick pony repetitions,
their coronets trumpeting his unmasking,
*making this essay, his revelations,
a product of their harmonious discordancy

Clearly now I see,
That my soul had a plan.
Laid out perfectly for me,
To endure and withstand.

No I wouldn't do it over,
But Id never give it up.
I just keep moving forward,
Through the lessons I pick up.

I hear it in my soul,
When it's time to make a move.
A pull I can't control,
Brings me to another truth.

A lesson meets me there,
But at first I'm blind to see it.
Repeat repeat - til I'm aware,
And then she will reveal it.

Soul decoding old ways,
Uploading what is new.
These stories of your earthly days,
Are the building blocks of you.

The source collecting energy,
From all your transformation.
With every ancestor redeemed,
She is raising her vibration.

So tune into your highest self,
And don't you ever doubt,
That you come from a higher realm,
Made of stardust all throughout.

You bring this all within you,
So watch carefully for signs.
Youll know just what to do,
When the universe aligns.

▪︎ mica light ▪︎

Hiding. She's
Trying. I keep her
Confined.

Sleeping. She's
Weeping. She screams out her
Cries.

Falling. She's
Calling. There's pain in her
Eyes.

Dormant. She's
Latent. She feels
Paralyzed.

Shifting. She's
Drifting. But I keep her
Inside.

Uneasy. She's
Queasy. Yet I
Minimize.

Refracted. She's
Lasted. She cant be
Denied.

Bleeding. She's
Seeking. To be
Recognized.

Unwitting. I'm
Splitting. I say my
Goodbyes.

Heating. It's
Fleeting. My old peace of
Mind.

Conquered. I'm
Anchored. I'm treading
Neck-high.

Drowning. Heart
Pounding. My sight going
Blind.

Vehement. Not
Present. I am losing my
Pride.

Engaging. I'm
Raging. She's loud from
Inside.

Neurotic. I'm
seasick. From pain left
Behind.

Messy. We're
Heavy. There's blood on our
Lies.

Damage. I
Manage. This fall from up
High.

Numbness. Crave
Oneness. This banal state,
Mine.

Transgressing. Keep
shedding. And I'll find her
Smile.

Uplifting. Deep
Thinking. I tame what is
Wild.

           Releasing and healing
                     My own inner-child.

      
☼ Mica Light

Freedom isn't all flowers
And it isn't day dreams for hours
It isn't always your favourite taste
Redemption isn't always the case

In fact, freedom likes to give us choices
It's the reason we can use our voices
Try on words of all kinds
Thoughts on repeat change our minds

Freedom has a lesson to teach
That we all will learn eventually
A wretched vice of love internally
Permitting our suffering certainly

Freedom isn't all flowers
And it isn't high skies and towers
It's a power of will so specially
Designed for us to guide our destiny

In truth, freedom is like the spirit
Neutral to life but ever coherent
Providing us the great option
Of sleeping, or becoming conscious

Freedom has a message to send:
Forever within you can transcend
Trust the person you are within
For our lives are never stone written.

-miss_mica(<3)

Your eyes drip hot wax
on the bare of my back.
I 𝘴𝘲𝘶𝘪𝘳𝘮 at the 𝘣𝘶𝘳𝘯,
𝗶𝗻𝗲𝘀𝗰𝗮𝗽𝗮𝗯𝗹𝗲.
  
I dont make a sound
as it cools down.
Your 𝘣𝘪𝘵𝘦 fastened 𝘵𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵,
𝗶𝘁'𝘀 𝘂𝗻𝘀𝗵𝗮𝗸𝗮𝗯𝗹𝗲.

You flash me your teeth -
I forget how to breathe.
And I 𝘭𝘰𝘴𝘦, I can't 𝘱𝘳𝘰𝘷𝘦
𝗜 𝗱𝗼𝗻'𝘁 𝘄𝗮𝗻𝘁 𝘆𝗼𝘂.
    
So I fill up the room
with the scent of my mood.
Can't 𝘥𝘦𝘯𝘺 you get 𝘩𝘪𝘨𝘩
𝗼𝗳𝗳 𝘁𝗵𝗶𝘀 𝘁𝗮𝗯𝗼𝗼.
    
Your tongue licks your lips.
Hungry, I am your fix.
Well 𝘥𝘦𝘧𝘪𝘯𝘦𝘥 in your 𝘮𝘪𝘯𝘥
𝗶𝘀 𝗺𝘆 𝗸𝗶𝘀𝘀.

You follow my gridlines,
I etch you in fineline.
𝘌𝘯𝘤𝘩𝘢𝘯𝘵𝘦𝘥, we've 𝘤𝘳𝘢𝘧𝘵𝘦𝘥
𝘁𝗵𝗶𝘀 𝗯𝗹𝗶𝘀𝘀.
  
Your skin sends out shivers
to make my hips quiver.
They're 𝘵𝘶𝘳𝘯𝘪𝘯𝘨 and 𝘣𝘶𝘳𝘯𝘪𝘯𝘨
𝗳𝗼𝗿 𝗺𝗼𝗿𝗲.

I keep it discrete
as you watch me low key,
til 𝘸𝘦 𝘮𝘦𝘦𝘵 on the
𝗹𝗶𝘃𝗶𝗻𝗴𝗿𝗼𝗼𝗺 𝗳𝗹𝗼𝗼𝗿.


▪︎ mica light ▪︎

Here is where gravity is null, and I am void,
I've fallen, I know I have,
Into a hole, I must have died.
I only just landed, some how alive.
Everything is silent, but I'm screaming,
"Talk to me! Talk to me!"
All that I hear now is whispered out of dark rooms,
from figures staring out from stained glass
as I stagger down a dark church corridor,
and they talk to me slowly.

Live in the darkness,
thrive in the shadows,
You fell into our realm,
from the one up above us,
A gift from the light,
A dark shining candle.
Light washes over us,
Leading us and healing our wounds from the life we lived before.

A wicked ebony carriage creaks and whines as it is pulled,
intricate designs are revealed as it draws near,
thorns of pyrite wrap around its doors,
The windows are old and flaking mica.
There are blood red roses that shed petals at every corner,
they move like magic and turn brown as they descend,
before settling on the floor, undisturbed as the carriage wobbles onward.
The carriage itself is pulled by two huge black figures,
spewing sulfuric smelling gas as they exhale,
gnarled brown horns extend from their heads like a ram,
and each is fitted with harnesses of black fire,
Though it seems not to burn them, I pity the poor souls.
I pity them, but still I fear them more.

They settle in front of me, looking upon me with colorless eyes,
Their harnesses disappear as they stop pulling,
They stand straight up reaching at least seven feet tall each,
towering over me as they pant out thick steam.
I raise a quivering hand to touch one of the beasts,
To prove it's real and truly standing in front of me,
I see the sweat glistening like diamonds on it's short black fur.
I look into it's eyes, but I can't see any threat in them,
However, I can't find any comfort in those dark obsidian eyes either.
I can feel the heat radiating from it's body now,
I can feel it's hot breath baring down on me.
I hesitate a millimeter away from touching it's coarse hair.

The door to the carriage is thrown open with a bang,
shocking me into stumbling away from the beast before me.
I glance up at it and see it still staring at me with those dark empty eyes,
I am nearly hypnotized by those eyes.
A small man, no more than four and a half feet tall,
approaches me and I tear my eyes from the beast's.
The man is old and wrinkled,
his skin grey from age and his obvious decay.
He has no eyes that I can tell,
his lids are clenched and wrinkled shut.
At his side is a whip, nine tailed and barbed,
made from black leather, caked with blood
and still clinging to bits of flesh, torn from it's victims.

The man takes his ****** whip in hand
and strikes the double doors in back of the carriage,
I cringe and step back, fearing what might come out.
The beast in front of me grunts, breaking my concentration,
I look up to his eyes and find he's still staring down at me,
he drops to one knee, now eye level with me, and extends his arm.
It's huge and obviously muscled, He could tear me in half if he wanted,
but now I can see the emotion and colors in his eyes,
Swirls of blues, accents of purples,
hint of green, flecks of yellow.
I feel calm, I feel safe with this beast of a demon kneeling before me.
I trust that he will never harm me, but I don't know why.

The old man lets out a stern yell in a tongue I can't understand,
The man's eyes are open now,
But I find myself looking at empty sockets.
He raises his whip at the beast kneeling before me,
approaching as small imp like creatures unload the carriage,
I am frightened for the beast who stays unflinching.
I can see the beast not even bracing for his attack,
I can see his powerful clawed hands,
one limp at his side, the other stretched out to the side of me.
Neither is going to stop the little man from tearing chunks of flesh from his body,
neither is going to attack the man who is still yelling in that foreign dialect.

I find myself staring into the beasts eyes again,
I am drawn into them, towards them.
My feet move of their own accord,
taking me closer to this hulking monster,
I smell the musky scent of his fur,
then I feel it, coarse and oily against my bare arms.
I don't know when I wrapped my tiny arms around his neck,
but I can barely get them around him.
I feel a strong arm go gently across my back,
then a hand at the bend of my knees.
I close my eyes and can feel myself being lifted up.

The man stops yelling and I open my eyes again,
He's fussing about at the beasts feet,
muttering something about it's height,
he turns his empty sockets on me.
I bury my face in the demons neck fur,
a cowardly thing to do, but I am so frightened by those empty sockets.
I hear him laugh and scoff,
saying something about frightening too easily.
I look back with one eye and see him setting up the thing from the carriage.
It looks like a painting with a ***** burgundy tapestry over it,
I can see golds and browns weaved into it,
but it's deteriorating like the man fretting over it.

He motions for me to look at it,
so I obediently face it fully,
my demon settling me comfortably in one arm.
The man pulls the tapestry from the painting,
I peer down at it wondering what it could be of,
it seems enchanted like the roses on the coach.
The colors themselves seem to dance and writhe on the canvas.

It's a picture of lithe little woman,
She looks to be sitting on an invisible chair in midair,
all around her is darkness and death,
scattered bones and a broken carriage lie behind her,
as swirling purple and blue dust swirls in the air.
Her hazel eyes burn like embers from a slowly dying fire,
They seem to be able to peer into my mind, if she so pleased,
Even see into my Soul through her thick black lashes.
Her coal black eye shadow is painted to mimic a spiders web,
and as though it had been woven on with the silk itself,
it shimmered in flickering candle light.
I could see she was resting on shadows, not the air,
now that I looked harder at her,
and she was surround by them on all sides.
She is the lone bright color in the painting,
A white haze, like gossamer curtains, drapes over her body,
I watch, mesmerized as the haze forms to her frame,
making a dress that looked innocent, yet deadly and beautiful upon her form.
She looks familiar somehow,
and I reach towards the magical artwork,
And she reaches back for me.

I freeze, goosebumps raising the hair on my body.
I wave, and she mimics,
I nod, and so does she.
I look to the beast, and to the man
He nods and I need not ask the question.
This was not a painting,
Just a mirror,
I was only watching myself.
I look again and see the haze left over,
it's above my head, drifting over my hair,
settling into a tiara of demons and spiders
all made from fine crystal that seemed to make a light of it's own.

More whispers came from the closed doors,
whispers that turned into a chorus of voices,
Voices that seemed ominous, sad,
friendly and threatening,
A chorus of evil things that hid in the shadows.
The things that ****** children from mothers,
and lead men astray to their deaths,
yet I loved them without question,
as they repeated again;

Live in the darkness,
thrive in the shadows,
You fell into our realm,
from far up above us,
A gift from the light,
Our shining candle,
spilling light in the darkness,
Our queen of the night.

There is at all times
A soup boiling
In the plains of the Savannah.
As the wind presses its large and small hands
Into the course straw grass
To smooth the wrinkles-
But also to make more.

And falling slowly, fluxing,
Between the waves—creatures,
All of them strange,
Blending.
And from time to time, a sickening red,
But only for a while,
Until it is swirled once more into the soup,
Or steeping into the earth as tea.

There is sometimes a stacking of skies;
Amber
On top of pink,
On top of blue,
With pyrite flecks-
But not yet indigo.

And one form rises up out of them;
A baobab moving slowly,
Mushrooming monster,
Exploding exponentially outward.

And at its calloused feet
Are porcelain painted zebras
And soft clay elephants,
Who reshape themselves in the gray murk
Of the water hole-
Which is sometimes blue,
And sometimes sheeted mica shimmering.

Watching quietly, the prince.
Who is still,
(But not exempt!)
Unable to be, but becoming.

Exhausted and exhausting,
Around his furrowed face is a mane
Of technicolor flames.

I don't believe you when you say
that your hands are tied.

I don't believe you when you say
that your hands don't have holes in them.

That the sand doesn't slowly pour out through the cracks between your fingers.

...

𝘐 𝘴𝘩𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥'𝘷𝘦 𝘬𝘯𝘰𝘸𝘯...

when you asked me
to hand you my soul,

that the depths of its love,
your hands, 𝗰𝗼𝘂𝗹𝗱 𝗻𝗼𝘁 𝗵𝗼𝗹𝗱.

...

▪︎ mica light ▪︎

In the morning
The sky
Is so beautiful.
The wind
sways the trees
And urges me
to dance.
The sun's rays
Shine with clarity
And the birds' songs
Invite the light.

I am at peace.

So.. I can be.

But,

Sometimes...

Swiftly...

Do you hear it?
There's a whispering...
Don't listen.
It's a trap.
There's no way.
There's no chance.

There it is again,
That fear.
The storm -
Here it comes.
Buckle down.
Id better hide.
Quick, try.
Before it sweeps
Me up too high...

But it's got my mind.
It's here.
Strong and loud,
This time.
And not slowly, but
Instantly, It
Sweeps,
Me,
Up.

I am thrown in.
I am lost within
A black space
With no boundary.
I can't find the edge.
And I've forgotten,
How,
To function.

I scream.
I collapse.
I cry.
I destroy.
I despise
Every bit
of myself.
And, still
I can't find
The way out of here.

The storm -
It thrusts
And sways.
Unsettles
And circulates.
Until it
Can no longer
Keep up
With demands.

The perpetual motion
Slows down,
And the winds
Begin to calm.
But the black
Smokey fog
Doesn't leave...

The dust
begins to settle
On top packages
Of self doubt,
Shame,
Guilt,
And worthlessness.

Then without warning
Gravity pulls me
Back
Into my body.
And in silence,
I am left,
Sifting through
What remains of me...
Shattered sorrow
Tired eyes, and
No light that I can see.

...

I am so angry
Because
The sky
Was so beautiful today.
And so was I.
But I wasn't bigger
Than the storm.

Not this time.

• Mica Light •