You must think… Dredge it up, mucky bottom. How to List filed in a rusty cabinet sunk in an uncertainty cavern. How to…what for? Sans negotiation the net drags across the bottom. An anchor let go under duress. A care forgotten abandoned to fend for itself. Ruminate. Three. Sometimes the earth trembles. Truth sifts in its shaking. Unraveling floods dragging mountains under. the third. the third. the third. srb
Threads from my pocket in your candy hand, I wonder where they’re going to. Threads and hands. Spooled together on some spinning wheel. While a cool mint flavor melts on my tongue. My hand in your pocket comes up with chocolate Your threads mixed in tin foil wrappers Like mixed mediums on display And up for purchase while dusty lips kiss sweet on my bent shoulders. Thread and threads never cut, uncut Interwoven. In wonder. Fair fairy particles upon our souls made quick work of spinning hands together while the weaving made us whole. shelley rae bell
Do I keep things out? Or in?
I cannot tell. I would not say.
Forged bars are where doors
would compose an opening.
I held the blacksmith’s hammer.
And tongs when I breathed fire.
Placed each bar in tedious fashion.
A wartime plan.
Do I lock the door against? Without?
I select. I would indulge.
A secret keepers combination.
A brave companion.
He collected memories he could not keep and lay them ashes at her feet. Then bound her ankles sore and pulled the tethers sound and stole the hope that she had found. God, what hope! Flew into the lie that bled into these lovers’ sighs. She then, shackled raw, lay down her body, owned, molded all the ashes to her bones. srb
grief overtakes me like terrorists ammunition. pummeled. slain. shredded. i need to lie down. my eyes burn with blood from the backlash. turn my head. i loathe the light. i plead with dark to sway me, keep. deep then deep buried under bullets, sleep awash with sorrows triumph.
Fortitude. And a shovel. Leather walking boots for trudging. The perimeter. What have I to say? Its been said before. I walk where feet have worn a path and left markers. Trail ONE. Orange. Safe and Safety. Is it real? Trail TWO. Orange. BRIDGE IS OUT. Is it true? What have I? A Fantasy Compass and a map of seasons. SRB
Where was I while you held the flower? Petals nested delicate in your hand. They glowed in sunlight and me likewise. I was more me than was before. A garden home. A place to stay and while...be. The notes of the little bird songs clasped in the confines of my mind while my skin burned in the summer sun. And you were there and leaning placed petals dancing in my hair. Leaning, dreaming golden morning hues wrought hope from blossomed love. shelley rae bell
There is something beyond the shadows… images without definition. Unknown. Still, I’m moving and feeling. Is it curious or despair?
It wears me out. Like this. Treads on old tires. Miles of traveling the same road just to travel back again. This is much worse than thinness. A dagger presses me. Puncture, let the air let out. I am still. Plus, like this. I am made for the junk yard. I cannot move. I cannot deny. Silenced and removed. A disabled cog on your machine. Fit for a grave among other used parts. sbell