I
--
The LORD is asking, “Do you trust Me, child?”
And surely He is worthy of all trust,
but visceral reactions oft’ seem just
in keeping soul’s anxieties well riled.
While panic, shame and dread stir doubting winds,
obsessive, tight, compulsive thoughts pour fuel
into this downward spiraling boil of gruel
where toxic interactions breed more sins.
So for relationships I feel unfit,
and now old interests die and pleasures wane,
as each new hope in Earth’s good brings fresh pain,
where dark depression’s presently my bit.
Yet in this wilderness I hear God call,
“Child, look to Me. I am your ALL in all.”

II
--
I meditate upon the word of God
to heal a mind that’s broken from the fall,
and lying in morn’s bed I now recall
the former paths of fullness I have trod.
I clear the course of tangling debris
that fogs perspective’s distance-viewing sight
and clogs the narrow way which lets in light,
so with God’s truth I’m able to agree.
I gaze toward the future that is sure,
to glory that is promised out of trial.
I push through lying voices of denial,
rememb’ring my inheritance secure.
So healing first begins by sizing scope,
for in true measure I can grasp true hope.

III
---
Long sheltered in the recesses of mind
on pedestals that overshadow truth
are lies which I have entertained since youth
like tape recordings stuck on forced rewind.    
There‘s something of appeal in misbelief,
some comforting, perverted, dressed-up face
which keeps foul strongholds rooted into place
and lets such rotten seedlings harvest grief.  
But I must choose to undermine their message,
uncovering deception’s hidden lairs
whose cultivation grounds for growing tares
leave roadblocks to integrity’s safe passage.
God’s probing, piercing words—what precious gifts!—
can excavate, expose and extract myths.

IV
---
I apprehend these truths in David’s psalm:
“I’m fearfully and wonderfully made,”
and all my days of life are firmly laid
within the sovereign care of God’s own palm.
And yet another voice keeps creeping out.
“You’re too unfit for blessed community,
hence from belonging full immunity
is your dim lot,” says paralyzing Doubt.
For ‘gainst the Word that says I‘m rightly hewn
rub all the bristling edges of myself,
but would one set forever on a shelf
a Bösendorfer piano out of tune?
No, value is a function of creation,
and He who made has promised restoration.

V
--
Restoration’s anchored in redemption,
and my redemption‘s grounded in God’s love.
Nowhere in far reaches man has thought of
could mind unfurl the breadth of such conception.
Sloshing, hesitating in the shallows,
I wander close to shore in Love‘s vast sea.
Then from the swell I hear a coaxing plea
to dive into the deeper wake of hallows.
What‘s this weight that pins my frame from racing
toward His unknown billows of delight?
Do I not trust that He will clasp me tight,
help me bear the fiercest waves I’m facing?
What guile of devils am I heeding here
which keeps me bound by paralyzing fear?

VI
---
Disheartened by my want for firm resolve
to swim toward agápē’s unplumbed depths
for int’macy with Him who paid my debts—
the only One from sin who can absolve,
I wander, wond‘ring what I’ve missed to see
within my comprehension of Christ‘s love
when He would vacate majesty above
and suffer cruelest death to set me free.
They stripped Him, flogged Him, spit, pulled out His beard,
then pressed a crown of thorns down on His head.
They nailed Him to rough cross to leave for dead—
Creator of the world now by it jeered.
In love this traitor by her King was served:
Christ Jesus bore God‘s wrath which I deserved!

VII
----
Considering what labors Christ performed
to buy my freedom off sin’s slav’ry block
that of His fullness, with Him, I could walk
in resurrected life (not just reformed),
can I not trust that He will see me through
each trial, tribulation, sorrow, loss
when He would not forsake me at the cross
but carried all my grief and suff‘ring too?
And just as death‘s cold grave could not contain
my Savior but gave way to watch Him rise,
whatever loss my path has to comprise
shall work for me eternal glorious gain.
So while my courage may still be in lack,
the settled thing is there’s no turning back.

VIII
-----
Wading through fresh tidal pools of mercy
along a piece of coast that‘s not too wide—
among the crags and caves where stragglers hide,
hoping to evade crowd controversy—
I know I‘ll have to move on before long.
But in the warm meanwhile of the day,
I kneel to rest; and as I start to pray,
my heart begins to open to a song—
a gentle, soothing lullaby I’ve known
sung to the tune of ‘Eventide‘ as hymn,
reminder that this life is fading, dim
but that in Christ I never walk alone.
And as I raise the words, “Abide with me…,”
here comes my Shepherd, walking by the sea.

IX
---
What now is this waylaying, sin-sick soul?
Diversional winds from cliffside descend.
Where‘s pressing fire my devotions attend?
Brain‘s robbed of sanity, sleep, self-control.
Jesus comes near numb heart in distraction
and bids me again to clean deadwood out.
Jesus, I‘m desperate, drowning in doubt!
Help me expel what‘s needing subtraction!
Discipline, prudence, wisdom, contentment
can work to restore both body and brain,
while worship will lift locked heart from restraint—
its untethering from woe’s resentment.
I won‘t, without wisdom, taste truest Love,
yet Love holds true keys to wisdom above.

X
--
Mottling mind’s hazed subconscious sockets—
bedecked by ego’s restless crave for fill—
infections grow to permeate my will,
ladening, with dross, affection‘s pockets.
Foul seepage soon coagulates to plaque,
forces clefts which weaken my foundation,
foments psyche’s stormed disintegration
till half-light’s flushing falls to midnight‘s black.
Yet amid murk‘s rotting, rank confusion
with ev‘ry faculty succumbed to rift,
My Shepherd plucks me fiercely from the cliff,
tending thorn-torn blight with Love‘s ablution.
Healing, though, requires my surrender—
all cooperation I can lend 'her.'

XI
---
Jesus asked a question at Bethesda,
the pool by which an invalid was lain,
for thirty-eight lost years left in his pain—
twisted, timed, tormenting, teared siesta.
“Do you desire to be made well?” He asked.
“I’ve none to help me!” was the plaintive cry,
then Jesus spoke miraculous reply
that to get up and walk the man was tasked.
That’s not to say all healing will be found
within this present life of ills and woes,
but still I hear Christ probing through the throes
if I am truly willing to be sound.
Or would I rather lie on crippling bed,
an invalid of spirit, heart and head?

XII
----
Shuffling through some past miscalculations
surrounding toxic breakage of the vines
that ought secure the healthy bound’ry lines  
guarding interpersonal relations—
rememb‘ring my susceptibility
to ego-shuttled, codependent err‘rs
which strain to manage others‘ own affairs
and so invert responsibility—
I ponder if I‘ll ever grow to learn
proper seeds for sowing mutual trust
with vital tools for gently sanding rust
to help stave off a bondship‘s breaking-burn.
One thing I know, that trusting in the LORD
steers love‘s impetus to carry forward.

XIII
-------
“I’m not enough and yet too much,” I've read.
Succinctly that describes my current angst,
and I can‘t justify to war against
these arguments which whirl around my head.
I’ve been told, “You’re just a little intense,”
by many people, not just one or two,
and this they voice clangs manifestly true,
as gaping holes defect my bound‘ry fence.
Voluminous in content and in force,
bestowing as prized gifts what isn‘t sought
or wanted by those for whom gifts are brought,
I falter in my need to change set course.
And where it comes to giving what‘s desired,
real competence seems found to have expired.

XIV
-----
Someone wrote, “true soul mate is a mirror“—
like limelight they‘ll reveal your unseen faults.
Where no one else delights to search your vaults,
“soul mate“ renders time to be apt hearer.
It matters not, was said, that they don‘t stay,
so long as they‘re an agent for reform—
the one who makes you desp‘rate to transform
by breaking heart and making ego fray.
Danger lies in nuanced underpinnings.
I thought I‘d found my soul mate in abuse
and used “he needs my fuel“ as excuse
to take a twisted game to extra innings.
Here I’ll grant these crazed imaginations
were at core demonic machinations.

XV
-----
Casting down romantic schoolgirl notions
that sin-drenched bonds might fashion souls complete,
I drag bewitching grails to Jesus’ feet—
spurning now to drink past guile‘s potions.
As I linger longer in His presence,
I‘m freshly bathed from marring guilt and shame,
reminded I‘m made whole in Jesus‘ Name—
partaker in the fullness of His essence.
Identified eternally with Christ,
secured by His unfailing love through grace,
one day I‘ll walk perfected face-to-face
with Him from whom true life is all-sufficed.
And as I muse, I taste true heart‘s desire—
rekindling, renewed with holy fire.

XVI
-----
Attitude is prime, determinant hinge
on which the door of restoration swings—
deciding what response subconscious brings
and on which morsels mind should bestly binge.
Plenty is dependent on perspective.
Mountain, plain or valley alter sight 
and size by which is measured present, plight.
Simply switching lens can be corrective.
In Christ, Ephesians tells me, I‘ve been raised,
seated with Him in the heavenly realm—
positioned by the One who steers the helm
that Father, Son and Spirit would be praised!
Worship, like a rudder, sets the outlook
to keep me highly grounded in God‘s Book.

XVII
------
Why should I to the worship of false gods
surrender my outlook frivolously?
Idols grab first gaze notoriously,
rob joy as will‘s defenses yield heart‘s nods.
What then? Can I suppose I might steal back
a measure of exuberance through more
skewed genuflecting to gilt calf before—
itself beleaguered, plagued by woeful lack?
Now heed, wayfaring soul of mine, what‘s true:
Creation‘s bounty-goods will make you slave
and with sweet Siren‘s flutes your mind deprave
when to them you lend focus Christ is due.
Lay firm your eyes on Him—pure, restful bed,
cover, fuel, completer, Fountainhead.

XVIII
-------
Wandering down some cobbled, crowded street,
I‘m nowhere headed, rapt in mindless thought,  
and as I saunter south I happ‘ly spot
a friend long-lost but fiercely longed to meet.
Just up ahead, he’s mixed well in the throng
but might be caught if I push through and race!
Heartbeat quickens. Oh, to see his face,
this one with whom I’m sure I must belong!
Yet when I actually seize him and he turns,
I’m devastated, sunk. It isn’t him.
Then moping northbound—dazed, dejected whim—
I stumble on the One for whom heart burns!
How strange, as I had grappled, chased and shoved,
that I’d been running from the One I loved!

XIX
-----
He‘s reservoir for which parched spirit begs,
familial feast cast heart longs to attend,  
elixir fractured psyche craves, to mend,
secure foundation ‘neath soul‘s skittish legs.
Jesus is hearth fire, garden blooming,
joy‘s kiss that welcomes prodigals with tears,
arms’ tender brawn consoling weak ones‘ fears,
shelt‘ring lullaby as nightstorm‘s looming.
Who else can scatter stars, strew mountain snow,
to whet beloved‘s taste for pristine grace?
What other love’s like this, that He‘d embrace
excruciating death to grace bestow?
And best, most faithful lovers of this earth?—
dull pennies next to Christ‘s resplendent worth!

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

VOLUME II:
(** — XXXII) [Edited in 9/27-29/21]

**
----
Closing the door on chaining obsessions
requires some short-circuiting of thought
previously allowed to flow uncaught
and forge ever-deepening depressions.
Pathways in my brain can be rerouted
by changing interactions with my world,
observing what’s most easily unfurled—
presently what’s to five senses suited.
‘Mindfulness’ can be a Christian practice
and doesn’t have to rest on Buddha’s shelf—
“awak’ning non-existence of the self”—
or from unseen, eternal things distract us.
True mindfulness is found in gratitude—
joyful, eucharisteo attitude.

XXI
-----
A biblical version of ‘mindfulness‘
is found in 1 Thessalonians 5,
revealing as God’s will that saints should strive
for ever-prayerful joy and thankfulness.
Pond‘rous gratitude staves off resentment,
greed and pride. As was taught to Timothy,
what‘s created and giv‘n by God should be
received in sacred thanks with contentment.
Creation reflects God‘s bounteous glory
and demonstrates His loving grace and care,
so in same grace and glory we can share
each time we recognize Him in our story.
Ten thousand tiny gifts write each day‘s page,
and he who welcomes most is most like sage.

XXII
------
In restoration, elasticity
of mind is a factor to celebrate.
So please don‘t ever underestimate
the wonders of neuroplasticity.
New brainpaths form and old channels falter,
depending on what choices I might make.
Fresh experience of which I partake
will physically help my brain to alter.
Here‘s one great hope I must now remember:
What’s hardwired today can still be displaced,
and thoughts might soon flow on paths greenly graced,
as I feast my soul’s eyes on brain’s Mender.
Bent mindfulness toward Giver and His gifts
best brings joy‘s healing for my mental rifts.

XXIII
-------
Realizations that some obsessions
are desires to vicariously ride
the mindfulness of others who don‘t hide
their own keener sensory possessions,
aptly are aiding to turn my focus
from curiosity to understand
their thoughts, which often‘s led my heart-demand—
want to consume their minds‘ crops like locusts.
What I‘ve perceived as love, concern to know,
empathy for others‘ worlds internal,
might be more escape from mine external—
attempts to hide from life‘s real, present show.
Avoidance wears all sorts of vibrant masks
to keep me blinded to here-moments‘ tasks.

XXIV
-------
Viewing secondhand eviscerations,
as others spill their innards on the page,
may seem the safest way to heart engage—
surrogated life participation.
Substituting others‘ honed perceptions
where I ought learn observance of my own
will keep childlike experience ungrown,
smother creativity’s conceptions.
Social media’s pitfalls lie therein,
along with greater dangers lurking large.
Despite its many goods, there’s needed charge
that gorging on a good thing leads to sin.
Shutting website windows is like trailhead,
opening mountain path to higher tread.

XXV
------
I‘m learning to sit with anxiety
raised by self-denial of habit’s fix,
mindful how my heart solicits tricks  
to alternate for true society.
Discomfort speaks in volumes to soul’s ear
like smoke alarm alerting to a fire.
It tells me, “Quick, investigate! Inquire!
Please find the source of inner burning fear!”
Nervousness as friend might offer insight
if I can hear and listen to its warning,
objectively without the shame-filled scorning
that tends to follow panic-stricken plight.
Practice putting tension in glass cage
to monitor its undercurrent’s rage.

XXVI
-------
It’s time to preach a sermon to myself,
for fears are overtaking me in waves;
and spirit must combat what habit craves—
flesh seeking consolation in false pelf.
Scrutinize what’s underneath such worry.
Do I believe the LORD is still in charge
of details of my life and world at large?
Look to Him. Don’t yield to anxious hurry.
Do I believe He’s with me and He’s good,
a faithful Shepherd tending to each need?
Then look to Him. Don’t drown in fretting’s greed.
Christ’s sheep don’t have to look elsewhere for food.
Each wait is opportunity to grow,
for God has holy riches to bestow.

XXVII
--------
God’s character and sovereign wisdom hem
my life, as His responsibility.
No wrong will steal my true identity,
whatever slips or schemes might spill from men.
Christ’s Ruler over all, but do I let
Him fully reign as Master in my heart?
Do I acknowledge I’m His work of art
and purpose for His hammers, chisels get?
Intimacy and glory are the friends
to which His sanctifying lessons point
and meld together as love’s dovetail joint
whenever I surrender to these ends.
Soul, set your hope on grace to be revealed.
Entrust to God strain’s mysteries still sealed.

XXVIII
---------
LORD, HELP! Why is my mind so distracted?
And why then, letting it be drawn away
for half an hour, am I now okay
to let my compulsions be retracted?
Give in to let go feels like solution,
but know it only deepens the desire
for later curiosity‘s inquire—
grants no satisfying resolution.
Those thirty minutes mindfulness was lost,
yet could it be empowered by the fall,
as I look closer inside to recall
that giving way to habit bears great cost?
I won‘t grow discouraged by the setback
but seek to further understand self‘s lack.

XXIX
-------
Low-pitched, humming anxiousness was sitting
all day inside my torso‘s cavity.
Mindful sensing lent no gravity
to coax the stubborn squatter through outwitting.
Head was tired from too little sleeping,
so frankly seemed to coast and just make do.
Soul felt no fresh excitement by woods‘ view
and lacked bright energy for much guard keeping.
One moral of this story is night‘s rest
must become priority for healing.
Otherwise this shaky default feeling
will grow into another panicked crest.
Though it‘s no excuse to say I‘m tired,
it‘s clear reformed sleep habits are required.

***
------
Changing what’s practical opens a door
to transforming what’s spiritual, mental
and emotionally experiential.
Habit alterations might well restore
enough equilibrium of body,
restfulness, clarity, reason and time
to give me needed aid to better climb
above oppressive moods, both low and haughty.
“Early to bed, early to rise...”could be
one thing to make a world of difference
and welcome back some simple common sense,
to open up new space for setting free.
But for that discipline to take effect,
I’ll also have to curb the internet!

XXXI
-------
Every opportunity for worry
is greater opportunity to trust
that God behind the scenes is sanding rust
from parts of me where fear has made faith blurry.
Without unknowing-gusts to stir the pit
of nervousness inside my helplessness,
I might ne‘er seek my Shepherd‘s faithfulness
nor learn to wait on Him and with Him sit.
These are times of richest growing lessons
when I‘m reminded He is LORD, not me,
and that He works to draw in int‘macy
feeble souls to Him through stretching sessions.
Joy is knowing sure—head, heart and will—
He‘s ever whisp‘ring, “Child, come closer still.“

XXXII
--------
Recapping basic steps to take thus far:
Find sleep (which may mean need for melatonin
to counteract my haywire serotonin),
and overuse of internet I‘ll bar.
Then with restfulness bring mindful thinking—
keen noticing that‘s graced with gratitude
and sets a stronger skyward attitude,
buoys me up against fret‘s downward sinking.
More important still is meditation
upon the word of God‘s indicatives
which lay foundations for imperatives
to follow as prescriptive medication.
Most crucial element preventing fall
is fix my eyes on Jesus through it all!

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Running through the checklist of things to do I can’t help but feel overwhelmed.
A breathe of fresh air is what I crave;
I’m lost for wards for what I have discovered; I tried so hard to be the role model.
Venting is not enough.
Engaging in this forbidden dance was something I couldn’t see you doing till you were older.
No were to go, no were to hide;

Even though I hold you so dear to my heart this action has ripped the death grip I had.
Loneliness became a friend;
Lingering is nothing but the old memories of what was the good you and now I just see hypocrisy.
It drew me in ever so close.
Stupid: how could you be so stupid? All these lessons I tried teaching you for nothing!

My heart was so big;
It’s like I’ve wasted part of my life on you and I can never get it back, I struggle with this.
Chanting in the name of love.
How can I accept you when the feelings I have are twisted just like your words to me?
Aroused by the thought of being loved;
Ever mess up you were there to make me regret it, yet your actions are exactly the opposite of your words.
Love never felt so cold.

Staring into your eyes make me hate you; I resent the connection we have, but I can’t let go.
Imagining there’s light at the end;
Severing the ties is not enough to make me forget you; our bond is too strong to do that.
This pain is too much.
Every memory of you is forever engraved on my heart, but I don’t want them just a new heart.
Rest in peace;

Awaiting for a new start seems impossible after everything you have put us through.
Never again will I fall.
Drowning us with your overdramatic way has forced us to grow up faster then before.

But I hold on to hope;
Running away from everything is your downfall; you call me immature but really you’re looking in a mirror.
Over the times of deceit.
The mirror you fail to look at because you’re too afraid to see yourself for yourself.
Holding on to whats left;
Examine what your actions have brought onto us but too afraid to accept the consequences.
Running of empty words.

Now look at this situation we’re in and tell me that you are being mature about it when all you do is run.
Outsmarting the twisted thoughts;

Must you go on living this way I do not want any part of me to be involved with you.
Outwitting the tricky games;
Really look deep in your heart and feel the pain I feel and then walk a mile in my shoes and you’ll see.
Ending the lies, hurt, and struggle with just one breathe...

Bullying is not confidence
Deceiving is not intelligence
Lying is not outwitting
Disparaging is not bravery
Shouting is not a better way to be heard
Preaching is not the equivalent to love and harmony

Kindness and compassion
Are not words they are actions

Those of deceit
Often delete and retreat

I met my love at a pub
Drinking a pint of brew
We fell madly in love
Before I really knew

However I had an issue
He had a tattoo of his exwifes name
On his upper arm
TRISH

Outwitting an unwilling participate is a hard thing to do
Especially when the other person doesn't have a clue
The humiliation my cause for alarm
We needed to find a solution Before there was further harm

I sweetly batted my eyes and suggested
He add a line under the letter  T
changing the name from
TRISH to IRISH
HELL NO he replied I'm not Irish

I held my temper at all cost
I began to think the situation was lost
although my blood began to boil
We needed to find  our way through this toil

I stood my ground
I smiled speaking in the sweetest voice I found
leaving him no choice but accept my wish
WELL DARLING I'm not TRISH

He wondered how he would feel making love to me
If I had another man's name from him to see
His compassion saved the day
Understanding how I could feel this way

My darling love drinks a beer
To celebrate St Patrick's Day cheer
perhaps to remember the sacrifice he made to get here
Few know the story behind the tattoo he holds dear

Word to the wise
Think twice
about getting a tattoo a loved one may despise
A tattoo is like going under the knife
Your choice lasts a lifetime
Happy wife happy life

Outwitting,
out-writing
the days
defeats.

Snatching
victory
from the
inkwells
of the
mind.

Spelling
out
half-truths
and lies
in equal
measure.

The eye
of the
beholder
is blind.

Every other
word is
a treasure.

Not gold
or silver,
but thoughts
fraught with
flailing,
failings,
soaring
in spite
of
broken
wings.

Sailing
past lonely
hearts and
thoughts
of loved
ones left
behind.

Smeared
pen strokes,
notebooks,
spines bent
full of sins
or loves
confessed
obsessed,
depressed.

We are,
all of us,
roses,
between pages
pressed.

*

-JBClaywell

© P&ZPublications

finality is an incipient keeper,

it knows its airs.

will see them to their high

appointment, with events already

at play within the kingdom.

which has conspired a-no-turning-back.

there's no outwitting a crown, whose

wits were lost therefore granted.

Excellence in paragon colors
Atop blue mountains
Sitting in emerald- gold lush
Swallowed up in cherubim finery
Bursting fountains in splendour seams
With luminous fire , burning
In gold, diamond and sapphire purity
Blazoning glory in glory, of thousand
And one rainbows at dazzling glowing sundown, outwitting darkness and its
venomous snakes.

Anguish hid within sinister orthodox crosshairs
   wherein target to wreak psychic havoc without means to escape the crushingly feted incisors as if mauled by an unseen yak
this emotional state impaled between the maws of pincers –

   no exit except being squeezed to the maximum point
   of non-existence into the black
whence once corporeal complex
   fleshy edifice becomes slurry akin to shellac
or railroaded outcome no better nor worse

than being tied as a fast approaching train on track
a most offal emotional state,
   where the nursery rhyme of jilted jack
Childs’ play when inevitable doom and
    gloom one cannot hack

free – and options to secure safe
   and Soundgarden place to live doth lack
plenitude duet to penury,
   and subsidized housing a pipe dream
   asper surviving time of warfare

   between Iran and Iraq
but the lo…a crack
of hopefulness dawn most unexpectedly
   when this day-tripper hove ah slacker found salvation
   just in the nick of time
   when renting lease about ran out – back
twas cause to ******* alas and alack…
----------------------------------------------------------­-------------------------------
when tandem forces nearly coaxed self-destruction
   from coke kin conspirator ******
   ready to ambush and take aim
ensconced clattering red bull pawing the earth

   with a fury of a madman playing the Glockenspiel
   opportune moment to unleash fury n laid claim
thwarting salvation from psyche teetering
   on the brink of abysmal hopelessness to exclaim,

where suicidal ideations on par with Russian roulette
   ransoming life sans permanently deadly game
hellacious tongues of the underworld
   hungering to inflame

kept at bay from divine intervention vis a vis a cool
   out of the blue downy
   faux heavenly transgender angel Jame
me Dutton, appeared as thee bottled Genii,

   with limbs temporarily lame
being hermetically sealed gingerly
   placed upon tarp of lam may,
   a lifelike emoji emoticon meme
bur of a secret society of LGBTQ
   brotherly sorority sisters,

   which angel joined the coterie
   of Good Samaritan name
   outwitting any stealthy fleet of foot Equus
casually, earnestly and modestly suited
   to boost civic, and emphatic and
   graphic curses of doom to tame.

Down a path two strangers walked on separate sides of the trail
Divided by a future past
Cracked silhouettes with sins of vast
Cast asunder by shame and time
Their stories told intertwine
And in the night they run from dread
Blakened hearts pumping red
hand in hand in a collateral moon
They sat and waited, outwitting faith
Tied together in their own rot
Living trauma
Like flames take the moth
Forever he forsakes, and traps her in his eyes
she sees only his reflection in all the tears she cries
To reckless love, they were enslaved
She carried all of his hurt to her own grave
Over and over they took from one another till there was nothing left but empty shells
Contaning bodies of deceit and dread
He ran so far only to be mislead by his trepidation
Living and breathing the loss of his only rest, his own creation
Her arms
Cradling the dawn of make-believe
The means to set her earthly body free
But still her heart remains in chains
Bound by his eyes to never forget
The melancholy of love known only as regret
He will wake evermore and never know a untroubled slumber
In the night her imprisoned heart grieves
Locked in his eyes for all of time
He took her wings
She'll never fly

Outward brain stem hummock
analogously, (asper bound
minuscule magnum opus)
figuratively paginated with drowned
atavistic animal instincts

roar back to life upon found
perceived or real threat adrenaline
splashes cerebral hemispheres
triggering body electric
to become alert as a bloodhound

countless millenniums ago
the flight or fight reaction apropos
when savage beasts
threatened tribe with bro
whizzing primitive creatures
some forced tweet crow

wing, thence railing, swooping,
trouncing dough
main housing small cluster of emo
ting primates (gabbling in primal
grunts and groans witnessing ruminants

scurrying to and fro
survival of the fittest danger field
thus by dint of inherent smarts didst grow
outwitting wily coyote, or other lion eyes, ***
ping automatic saving grace tactics recalled,
when looming predator doth woof
and warp emergency arises,

when debacle fore stalled
for time against getting mauled
whereby each subsequent ruse
out foxing fierce-some, hungry non a mew
zing potential breakfast, lunch,
or dinner as the sorry loo

sir aye sic newton, sans
this non nonsense game of "Life",
which thru countless millenniums strategies grew
layered upon left and right cerebral hemispheres few
till hetty became diminished

as proper contra bands of bipedal hominids drew
upon accumulated storied history
learned from Bubba Zayda's
many times over motley (foolish) crew

squirreling modus operandi
wove (traversing eons)
corpus collosum hair
(more so nerve fiber weave

a microscopic whirled wide web linkedin
left and right fist size gray matter
coated with transparent integument
custom made swiftly tailored sleeve

ah...proving grounds,
when forebears of **** Sapiens
touch and go tagged on permanent leave
on par with imagining dragons easy to believe.

The last trailing tendril filaments
of moon beams nocturnally trace
fashion an illusory gilded chariot Ark,
whence upon celestial runners,
the approach of dawn's early light
illuminated terrestrial space
which nebulous solar city flanges
revisited since time millennial
hubbub of human race
nsync with Zodiacal constellations,
which appear to shift

as planet Earth axis place
alternated in accordance with
inexplicable universal teenage
mutant Ninja turtles joint pact
with power rangers assumption
sans quotidian playstation remotely
controlled by aliens upon
oblate spheroid figurative stage
set whence commencement nudged
village people foment quiet riot rage
and rant against

uncontrollable catastrophic frenzy,
when cosmic creator
rehearses another page
from playbook, which
color coded cobbled Bible
emanates with radiant hues
of yellow and osage
nonetheless, no mortal adept to predict
(only within plus and/or minus
some marginal variance of error).

oft times punishing atmospheric phenomena
incarcerated, pistol whipped
(if anther incorrect),
whiplash unleashed, oppressed, imposed
challenging condition testing ground
flora and fauna could thrive,
whereat most hardy
plants and animals didst abound
linkedin upon terra firmae
murmur of orchestrated
organisms devising fitting
evolutionary survival traits

plentiful glory vis a vis L'Chaim;
gnome hatter outlook required
sprinting thru uber vanguard,
where zero sum game pitted
disadvantaged Feng shui
living things poorly sparred mismatched
against itching attired egghead,
kickstarting netzero beastie boys
indeed emulating hotmail prodigies
holding greensward ground.

scrimmage fostered, elicited,
dictated, commandeered nature
going full throttle with pings
across biological labyrinth
positioning glommed, peeved,
mis tweeted seeds of life, and white lily,
within soil lent green grubby business
whereby herb and woody stemmed
recalcitrant proto flings
wrote toe rooter bakers

gave Gaia a run for her money
to buy Buffalo wings
chasing miscreants nimbly
outwitting, out-rigging
outsmarting nettlesome stings,
and sage protuberant fungi,
released messengers where rise home
spore ports left nada mushroom,
though symbiosis wood
bark a roll a cord.

When a boy,
I wanted to be as tall as my father
(he passed away October seventh
two thousand and twenty
linkedin to congestive heart failure),
who stood at his prime
about six feet and two inches
and tipped the scales
close to two hundred pounds.

Teachers and other familiar adults
chimed in that though diminutive
(yours truly, he unwittingly offered himself
as the ideal scapegoat
courtesy being longitudinally challenged,
weighing no more than an ostrich feather,
and hashtagged as "the quietest student,"
a flower child of the ninety sixties
always kept mum every single day of school),
would unexpectedly experience
peak height velocity.

Neither at ages eighteen, nineteen, twenty...
sixty three, sixty four and sixty five
bore witness to any added inches,
which topped out
around my sixteenth birthday
approximately seventy inches tall
and attendant weight a scrawny
one hundred and
twenty five pounds or thereabouts.

Actually since graduating
from Methacton High School
two score and seven years ago,
my weight ballooned
an avoirdupois unit of weight
divided into 16 ounces,
and equal to 0.453 592 kilograms
approximately forty plus times
such said constituent parts
first thing in the morning
after eliminating evacuating
re:excreting ****** waste.

A preponderance of adipose tissue
long since upended my once upon a time
twenty nine inch waist.

Slab of flab protrudes from ab - feel free to grab!

What follows initially written
quite some years ago
when being skinny as a rail meant
no meat on these lovely bones,
thus hired myself out as scared crow,
now excess adipose tissue thy foe
losing battle partially explaining
why knight spends inordinate
amount of time in his grotto.

Twas an incremental
subtle expansion of waist
plus olympic challenge to tie shoes
most likely side effects of one
or all nine prescription medications
to stave off severe melancholy,
social anxiety, panic attack, et cetera
when yours truly merely
prepubescent self starvation courtesy
emaciated Anorexic skeletal ribcage

traced (about two score
and a baker's dozen years ago),
now whereby most everything
thy tongue doth taste
immediately delivered
a randy (new man) paunch
to former washboard six pack
smooth as a fresh application
of gesso like paste
readying fleshy canvass

for partially ****
self-portrait masterpiece
(adjacent to barenaked lady)
lived three doors down
depicting mine once perfectly,
(albeit one scrawny lad)
proportioned body electric laced
with flat as a washboard physique
unlike present disk graced
whereat when sending a photograph

of shirtless self-try with futility
utilizing photoshop to get erased
displeasing equatorial zone of anatomy
saddled with unwanted
fatty tissue that defaced
proportionate rock hard stomach
one generic measly slender adult man
about five foot and ten-inch build
evincing an aura of being chaste
gone forever analogous to temptation

gobbling house constructed
of cake and confectionery,
that nearly did likewise
to Hansel and Gretel
readying their not quite
plump enough bodies
tubby slathered with baste,
yet just in the nick of time
the two abandoned minors
actually removed courtesy

children, youth and
family services (CYS)
under care of adoption in sync
with ***** work
aced the sinister plot outwitting
cannibalistic cackling
croaking old woman
inducing all to break out into song -
singing the following tune
I learned in grade school.

Loose air into pipes and croon
solo loud enough audible to man in the moon.

Sarasponda, sarasponda, sarasponda rat tat tat
Sarasponda, sarasponda, sarasponda rat tat tat
A doray-oh, A doray-boomday-oh
A doray-boomday ret set set
Ah say pah say oh.