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Julia Mullin Oct 2012
Anger starts off as something simple brought on by hurt, but if the hurt is set over the fire of jealousy, it begins to stir up like a wind and sandblasts away all common sense. It is the wrinkle in the fabric of memory that twists into the depths of things long forgotten setting into motion a dissipating hope that can soon vanish into nothingness.

She must subdue her anger and swim towards the calming shore of enlightenment before the anger consumes her. Can she stand like a tall tree and battle her emotions and slay the emerald eyed monster that’s wounded her by its thorny claws?

I hear her cry but not for me. I swim like the fish in the sea of commitment caught up in the rhythm of every day life. If she would look my way she would find a new beginning and she’d finally tame anger and keep it in its cage.

My name is Love and I course through the lives of everyone who has hope; like blood through the veins. Death happens without me and the body becomes a walking corpse. I call to her but she doesn’t hear me as she spins helplessly in a void where nothing takes shape.

I know she can sense me deep within her chest when she spies a glimmer of hope but her anger hides it in her rage. Her hope moves like sand through an hourglass of bitterness and the last grain is getting close to falling. Her eyes are covered with a shroud of deception and her hope is lost in the darkness.

Suddenly she searches for me and I come – her frozen heart melts and the hourglass shatters – her hope no longer captive. Her thoughts begin to float into a safe harbor where she slays the tall green eyed monster and removes its thorny ******.

Her tears flow like honey sticking to her cheeks as she cries like a newborn baby. Her heart is free and the red wounds heal with time as she begins to weave a hope filled life. New memories are stitched with bad to form a hero’s tapestry to be displayed in honor and not in shame. All who escape the clutches of hate are the victors. All who find me and keep me are given the strongest power known – love.
Ramonez Ramirez May 2012
A wind screams through crepuscular fingers
of white trees
chalking cryptic graffiti over flaking paint
lacquered
by the spray of waves breaking
the shoal
spits pebbles against grimy windows.

The door latches -- front and back -- rattle
the whey-faced man
sandblasts his warm and whisky breath
against the glass
over his victims’ desperate little handprints
dappled in red
sand whispers from within the basement.

The house moans.

— The End —