A maddening urge disrupts my sleep, the Muse has come unbidden. She tempts my heart and taunts my mind calling the Voice I’ve so long hidden.
The bloodletting continued until shadows merged and the tempest split the heavens. Nature may soak in Men’s crimson folly, but never their widows and children.
Heat wraps itself on me. The wind brushes occasionally. In the quietude of the night, I remember who I was.
But the Lord answered her, “Martha, Martha, you are worried and distracted by many things; there is need of only one thing. Mary has chosen the better part, which will not be taken away from her.”
With the mind driving the hand, the hand holding the pen, and the pen stabbing the paper, I write.
The child didn’t know any better when he joined hands with the boy with the large eyes and shiny clothes. They went for a spin and saw his house from above. He forgot the trip the next day.
A distraction whom I love to turn into a constant companion. Sans communication the distraction is, what it is.
They fear the demons outside the window at night. Good people. I fear the ones in me.
For when you carry no pride, nor public image, you walk a little easier.
Let’s not romanticize dying. Or living. I’m jaded.
Human sexiness is the bonus. Humility is the prize. Do you want me to spell it out for you?
I guess I am expressive. My silence speaks more than my words. When my introversion shows, everyone is invisible. My world is my own.