Saturday, November 5, 2022

Women Are Powerful: Mirror Talk

 

By and by to have ecstasy, found in his dungeon. Walking about, gazing at birds, chuckling under his breath. Never one more attuned to existence, seemingly sullen, or his mistake. So much beauty in seeing, so great the battle in essence, so filthy and playing cards. Sold a warzone, seeking more courage, captured at gates—if but to know this feeling. So close in fiction. So bothered in reality. Attuned by choices, iced by reckoning, abandoned to high living. Rich and bold, too much scolding, if he is correct. Love is foreign. Waging its terrors. So much presence—ideas are wafting. In trying to resist, we know the science. Those years are intimacy. Those sworn feelings, like wild trips. So gracious, so unfair, so much a chesswoman. She backs away and looks from time to time. She needs particulars, left with abstracts, a palm full of surmising.         

 

II

 

By permission to dance like sharks to laugh and play pretend. Built for a green light, always flashing red, to drive a soul crazy. How determined is sunshine? So great the loss—so deep the dungeon—a Wiccan woman. So blended. Origin. Tradition. And New Age. Don’t say so—leave a soul in limbo, the nights are filled with precision; so aloof, so much afraid, so comfortable playing pretend. By a woman’s girth, her work, her attributes—a scathed man, a delicate scar man, at his abandonment man. Eating metaphors, or mica, palming granite earth—to summons a wind, sipping teas, waiting for sunrise. So evasive, so elusive, so much our endearing paradox—made unorthodox, and nothing, no time, no excursion, the life in the zephyrs. Sawing friction, remembering outfits, hair, subtle frustration; so judgmental, such a manager, so moved by souls.  A class of expertise, a measure of design, with weight to carry—those shoulders, so great the strength, so burdened the appetite. Just needing one reason to believe, just wanting what we create, while hating a man inside. So great the green light, if to handle his heart, so close to renewing existence—those with power and those low, feel the greatest anxiety.   

I’d Save The Reader Years

    The beat becomes sickness. A long crucible—a drilling ecstasy. I was losing focus, feeling forbidden, if to self, if to mirrors. So curs...