The days bring an exhaustion of the soul.
Her eyes fade in to walls of comfort that may also cage a heart,
once free.
Words of phantoms temper the stars of her firmament, and in
an ocean of light-filled darkness, she stirs and corrodes.
Can you see my soul hanging from these gallows?
Do you see how she takes the rope from your hands and
loosens the coil, the hard knots of lifetimes,
the rage of a thousand volts,
infected with sadness, the despair of lips murmuring to
the Nothing.
Rushing madness, blink for years, hold on to moments.
Let go, they say. Slough off the tears, let them sting your eyes filled with bewildering pain, no longer.
Cut the rope, slip the stream of consciousness forward.
In the spin of it all, grasp and clench with all deliberate knowing, what you have spoken to others in those soft times.
If your legs have been cut from under you, grow new ones.
The others were tired of carrying a Queen of Ages, a woman with children she has never seen,
a quiet prophet of sorrow and fierce whispers. ~G.
Image by Kathy Fornal https://fineartamerica.com/profiles/kathy-fornal
Rushing madness, blink for years, hold on to moments.
Let go, they say. Slough off the tears, let them sting your eyes filled with bewildering pain, no longer.
Cut the rope, slip the stream of consciousness forward.
In the spin of it all, grasp and clench with all deliberate knowing, what you have spoken to others in those soft times.
If your legs have been cut from under you, grow new ones.
The others were tired of carrying a Queen of Ages, a woman with children she has never seen,
a quiet prophet of sorrow and fierce whispers. ~G.
Image by Kathy Fornal https://fineartamerica.com/profiles/kathy-fornal
