Fate Lies Within Typhon
When a man's reflection,
Bears the face of another,
When birds sing in reverse,
And reality splits asunder,
When mast meets horizon,
Fate lies within Typhon,
When the sky bleeds for one and for all,
Pray they meet Pandemonium's call
to feel seen
time is marked by the sand
falling through the hourglass,
and time is marked by trees
hitting the forest floor.
fell the tree, the roots stay.
so goes the legend, anyway.
you cannot uproot what cannot leave;
movement is a virtue,
luck is a virtue.
you find your hero frozen with
the weight of their decision in
they are moving.
they are breaking.
they break and stay the same.
the same as they always have been,
running has always been easier.
to a creature that only shivers,
the sun is a blessing.
to a creature without caregivers,
the sun is a watchful eye;
what do watchers know
that we cannot?
producing change is harder
than sitting still.
sitting still is harder
the world moves with us;
slowly, at first,
then faster, as it realizes
we are stronger than it wants us to be.
your hero is far from virtuous
and your villain is far from evil.
your ideals are broken,
just as your mind soon will be.
this is not a threat,
but a blessing.
keep your ear to the sky
and we will tell you
One Man's Funeral
One man’s funeral is another man’s celebration, for ‘tis well and okay to admit;
For guilt and sorrow are but something we borrow, whenever it doesn’t fit;
I mean, sometimes we’re just glad Johnny is gone, he was kind of rude anyway;
...And then he’s hit on a highway.
The “it’s just a part of life” cliche —
‘It’ll happen eventually’ — that’s simply what they say.
Some years then someday, we’ll all join the fray!
If we -really- all cried, when Ebenezer Scrooge died, well, frankly…
Some of y’all lied.
And that’s okay. Recquiescat in pace, all the same —
Just don’t be a dirtbag. That’s hardly a claim to fame.
How to Live (after Charles Harper Webb)
Grab hold on to objects small and insignificant
To bring yourself joy. Holding animals of stone,
Small rocks, clay figurines, or anything really
That may have a peculiar shape, a texture of its own
That differentiates itself from the rest. Rest with your small
Item in hand on a bed of pillows, curled up in a cocoon of
Blankets and warmth, while a strong but mighty army of
Plushies guard your slumber. They look on at a whole world
Full of monsters and nightmares, as you drift into a deeper sleep.
Fading in and out of dreams, you fall upwards into the sky.
Rushing towards you are different colors running and
Flowing together as a liquid. Gently the sounds of a
Song drift past you as words seem to appear right
Before your eyes. Reading but not comprehending,
Listening but not understanding. The sky parts and past
It you see darkness lit up by a thousand small lights.
Curled around orbs of lights, the darkness seems to
Swallow it all. Yet, in the dark, shapes form, from flowers
And flora to different people: some happy, kind, nasty, mean,
Sad and depressed, all of whom are different and the same.
Edgar Allan Crow (anonymous submission)
Leave me in the field of heather and lavender
with my thoughts and mind as I smell the sweetness of lilac
and feel the softness of the violets under the purple sky
the thorns of the white rose are keeping me safe
from the vultures above me