I stared into the abyss one too many times
Tried to believe in things which aren’t and things which can’t
Their spectre now haunts my mind
Having lost touch with solid ground
I fell into epistemological despair
What is real and what is up for grabs
I did regain my faith in truth
Though somewhat diminished under new light
Next the years went flying by
A few times madness popped in to say hi
The world conspired against me, so it seemed
Tracking my moves through the clouds small waves
Waiting for a chance to bring me down
Just with the things I’ve done online
Now I’ve recovered at least a bit
My recent outburst was brief and swift
Sure it was still an ordeal
But I’ve dealt with it in what seems the right way
The future doesn’t look so bright as it once did
But in the end I still live
Broken in pieces
Shards of glass
Ground to sand
But glass is made from sand
And to sand glass returns
And because of sand glass returns
But not without the knowledge
And the care of the process
Overseen by the Master
As each granule speaks
Thoughts of the Master
Creating His Master—pieces
All things together
The glass is formed again
Tempered for the next use
Yet able to be broken again
The process of a life
Given over to brokenness and repentance
Because they knew
Their Master cares for them
Perfect love, reciprocal to all
Founder: Stuff With A Message Inc
Butterflies & Hurricanes,
Paradoxes forgotten to mythology,
Lovers stuck in their ways,
Closure of relevant applied psychology.
Opposite forces mending conceptual sprits,
They serve as sources confining a vacuum of righteousness,
Ominous attractions display conjunctions of kinesis,
Bone marrow validity other than what is considered spineless.
Touch of the handle of the metaphorical door,
Breaking down framework enters the madman,
Wondering about all sides of what to stand for,
Captures those who have an open attention span.
Alter ego reflections to smoke on,
Rumination towards, a torch and a light,
An exchange of a sender and receiver under automation,
Specific greymatter between the duality of black and white.
Throwing cautions to the wind,
Targets of structure are locked in positions,
Alive, humbled when being skinned,
Objectivity locates truths aligned in non-broken traditions.’
Composition processes in dance,
Determining to not fix what is inherently complete,
Doubt is putting faith in circumstance,
You will know when touch executed is bittersweet.
“The muses are ghosts, and sometimes they come uninvited.” – Stephen King, Bag of Bones
Chocolate and vanilla –
And yet as they collide
A perfect concord,
An Amity of traits.
Such was the harmony
Of the frozen desert
By the familiarity
Of sight over taste.
The Fright of flight
From common trends
Chalk and cheese
Vanilla should equate
As they sat facing
The frozen desert afore them
Circles of perception met
Yet always having to conform
Yin met yang
Each with a dot within
Ending a story
That should have never begun
As the swirls of black and white
Melted into a muddy brown.
Performed by Julie C. Sheppard
He is life,
A great, mystical tree,
Symbolic in nature,
She is root,
Hidden, deep below,
With a foundation enduring,
She is a mystery to know.
Combined is the essence of Him.
Revealed is the depth of love Divine,
Captured, perfectly, over a history of time.
Good and bad,
Back to their own identity.
As it was in the garden,
The One tree of serenity
In the white sunbeams of a forgotten fall
A poor soul was screaming in vain;
I’ve found myself in a dazzling castle’s hall
Looking for the lost ballroom, sweet love’s reign…
How come beauty never revealed itself before?
Golden gardens on walls white as snow
Kept by doric columns, rooted in a marble floor
Silver key doors locked, lost in the wind’s blow
Chasing the moment, open every pine door;
Broken windows, shiny crystals all spread.
At the end of the hall, two massive black doors,
Slowly open at feather touch, tainted blame,
Oh, burning red fondness never felt before…
A charming man waltzes alone, held pain:
“Dance with me and life shall never be the same.”
Ardent footsteps on the ballroom floor
Until the evening sun made a shy greeting
Two strangers in the night, turned into gore,
The blood dripping from my hands, awful feeling:
“There’s no longer waiting for my fitting.”
Strain in my brain
Drive me insane
There’s something wrong with the membrane
I can’t contain or sustain
Your bad memories are like a stain
I think I know what I need to take
Take a breath
Veins in my system relieved
I am released
I wish I could find a place to leave
So I can lead
Imagining myself laying int the green grass
I think I just need to cool down
Take a breath
Trying to find space
Keep me in a beautiful place
I breathe there
I breathe here
Here I go
Death was an ancient traveller.
He was surprised that the old woman
opened the door for him so freely,
embraced him so tightly.
She found a form of comfort in his
hollowed face as he hid in the shadows
of her candle lit hut.
To her, Death was familiarity,
he was a constant, he was the cause
of all tears and laughter. She brings
Death to her hearth, wraps him
in sheep’s wool and tells him she has
loved him for her life time. She lights
the fire and tells him, she knows him
better than she knows the stars,
and that he is her closest friend.
You have been there for me
since the moment you birthed me.
She whispers to Death as she kneels
beside him. You were there when my crops
burnt to ash in July’s heat. You were there
when my fields drowned in heavy rain.
You were there for my child’s birth,
and her last breath.
The woman stands to her feet, pulls
Death up by the arms and wraps his
slender hands around her waist. You
have caused me many tears but also much
music and dancing. So, my love, hold me close
I know the steps. And so, Death did.
They waltzed through her tiny mud hut,
around and around in circles until the
candles burnt out and Death vanished
with the dripping wax.
By Megan Robinson©
The walls around me fell to the ground;
A decade before I heard the words, “lock down;”
That exposed every fear that’s ever been passed down;
From my first ancestor that was first locked down;
Scared that his bloodline won’t escape from being bound;
Frightened that the joy he knew won’t come back around;
So when I hear that the pandemic makes you frown;
And your movements are restricted because danger’s all around;
Because nothing’s different;
Welcome to the hell that I’ve been stuck in;
Where every move that you make feels unlucky;
And I don’t trust you because I don’t trust me;
Welcome to version of life that I see.
Where every day is a quest to be free.
Wedges of mauve, cauldrons of peach,
daisy chains, lavender, bare feet.
Treasures of pure natural things,
swept along with breezes of wind.
Herbal potions, cherry blossom pie,
crystal twinkles under moonlit sky.
Wild woods and mountain streams,
elixir of leaves gathered from trees.
Medicine women, midwives, healers,
empathetic, wise, kind teachers.
Brave and fierce, up to their deaths,
in the 1542 “witch panic” inquests.
Over 40,000 gone, never be forgotten,
the way women were killed, was rotten.
Yet, another excuse for oppression,
did human kind ever learn its lesson?
Victoria Healing ~ 2.11.2020
“It was not ‘witches’ who burned.
It was women.” ~ Fia Forsström