Weed

In my youth
I was given a seed.
I planted it in fine soil.
I cherished it
and watered it
and wateched it
eagerly yet patiently,
I anticipated all its needs
like a loving mother.
Then, there was
nothing but a bright green weed
that had flourshed under
my care, and I yanked it.
It came out easily and
I threw it away with disgust.
Weeks went by, and
nothing else grew there.
I don't why that seed never grew,
but I never expected anything good
to come to me.

Blanket

It is soft and warm enough,
wrapped in blankets,
indulging my weariness,
safe from judgement,
and futile duties,
hiding from sun and earth.
Imagining that the darkness
of closing my eyes,
is the whole world,
where I can travel alone,
and all that is in it
can be controlled.
But a restlessness taps
upon my inner walls,
and is echoed by the
pitching of the hull,
knocked and rolled by waves,
making every untied thing a projectile.
And though I strain to keep
this other world out, I am
still haunted by the knowing
that my courseless ship,
is prey to wind and rock,
whose consequence cannot be
lessened by blanket.

Wish

I came upon a fairy on a path in a quiet wood.
I dared not approach her, lest I lose her.
But she stared back at me as I stared at her
And the moment burned in me, the play of
greenish yellow light, her pretty face, her
delicate wings, all are with me still.
She said, 'I am called Persephone. If you
catch me, I can grant you a wish."
And as the dare was too bold not to dare,
I bolted towards her, and desiring to be caught,
she only mocked flying away.
And then I held her, firmly and gently,
with our cheeks brushing together.
She said, "Now whisper your wish in my ear,
and if it is in accordance with the Higher Power,
He will grant it."
But all I could think was how warm she was,
how pretty, how welcoming, how graceful,
how close she was to me, how she let me catch
her, the very presence of her.
And so I said, 'My wish has been granted.'
And she giggled and flew away, without looking
back.
And when I think of it, and see it for what it
was, and think of all I could have said,
and how every possibilty would be a torture
of not knowing the other possibilities,
I should have wished to wish no longer.

Ego

It is already here,
For I have brought it with me.
I thought it had been lost.
I thought that it had been effaced.
I thought the wind and the words
had worn it all away.
I thought it all had been washed
away by the endless rains.
Or that the stares and glances
had chipped and cut it away.
And I, too, had carved into it.
I thought I could shape it or refine it.
I had thought I could scrape it off.
I thought I could kill it.
But it is here,
where I must leave it.

Road

The young farmer, who had not been to the town before,
had to go there to sell his harvest.
The road was hard, and carved grotesquely by erosion,
which endlessly misguided the wheels of the tiny cart,
threatening to twist them into broken splinters.
The wind was harsh, and bitter, and blew the cart backwards,
even as the hill began to slope upward.
There was a cold, wet spray that was spat from the sky,
and there was only enough time to see that there was no
cover, when the rain fell heavily all around him.
It was then that the young farmer realized that the town
was not, and could not, be there.
He knew then that he had been deceived by rumors,
begun by the hopes of the ignorant.

Fire

It came too quickly
the response too slow.
The eerie orange light
bathed the stage where
jagged silohettes crashed
and splintered.
Yellow and white sparks cackled
and spat as they devoured
everything, feverishly, indiscriminately.
The eaters caughed up ash and smoke,
surrounding the scene with darkness upon darkness.
All is lost.
All is waste.
All that is left is All that was ever there.

Hate

With the axe lifted above my head,
I knew the just the weight of it would be enough,
For it was a heavy blade, and its gentle measured arc
would surely serve the purpose.
But as it began the flight downward,
the blood in my muscles surged with hate,
and I helped its cause all the more.

Outpost

The connections have been lost,
for all the wires are frayed.
The continuum of messages
is but static and snow.
This cranial outpost,
whose provisions are shrinking,
whose energy is waning,
whose winter is coming,
is too isolated
to hope for anything.
There were faces I had seen,
pleading with me,
But I could not hear them
through the storm,
the sheets of snow
obliterating their forms,
Their words were
but howls and screams.
I can't think what they
were trying to say, anyway.
It is the storm that has the final say.