And with the intertwining roads

That stretch for miles

Ourselves are scattered along the country side

For we leave legacies of our trials

Not carried off in the freeing air

But eternally grounded for you and me

So we can look back on our dusty path

And witness a transformation to be seen

Bits and pieces of ourselves become fractures all a while

Breaking us, mending us, healing us, in time

Our inevitable crutch of character

Blossoming into who we need to shine

I refuse to try
and feel your pain,
such an intimacy, gifted,
which each person must
tend to alone, to be lifted
from it's agony, sifted.
I can lend empathy,
bear the weight of the burden,
be the star you reach for,
for I cannot shun, as a child
birthed into sorrow
who never walks,
can never run.
Free as the wind blows,
does also the love that grows,
and being the light,
cannot come to be
without the darkness...
do you see?
Do not be fooled by those
who speak of emotions
they seek, for themselves
is who they cry for,
and it is their own ego
they will die for.
Try and imagine
connectedness and love,
are true in fashion...
...when respect
can come between what
loved ones feel,
and what is seen.
The beauty of life is not to
touch the sun, and run
from the pyre,
for underneath the tainted
flesh we become the sun,
and it's living fire.

If you gaze at a nature long enough,

You will clearly see

How beauty is born

When we synchronize outer change

With inner transformation.

Transformation is always

Gently knocking on the door,

Asking permission,

Offering growth. 

If you listen

Listen and you can hear it.

Hear it?                                                                                                                           

Change comes upon us

Like the sun at dawn,

Like the moon

In the stillness

Of the night.

Transformation happens

When we allow it to be

In sync

With change.

When we allow ourselves to be what we truly  are.

We are at one with nature.

You are on the other line. 

                                                                                                                    Answer the call.

                                                                                                                                                                        ©2012

Squelched upon the city blocks in memory and tandem;
Marion brings heel to rock and bleeds her bugs at random.
Dragging metric two ton cubes of pulsing, breathing black
that stain the ground and dripping down, corrode it 'til it cracks;
she's moving toward the faintest stir - she'd heard there was a show,
and wants to stand with clapping hands among the rest who'd known.
Her tarry brings her, carried in, to village crown and aisle,
where her cubes in grandiose were caught upon the stile,
and patrons cradled at her back and allowed their shouts to shrill,
while Marion could do no more than pull against her will.
People climbed and stepped upon her head and both her shoulders,
brandishing their anger towards these squares and their beholder.
Marion could only weep aloud while lunging forth in vain
as the metal traps affixed and bound would root her tow in place.
The roar of strings alive with sound cut through the furnace air
and through the sour passage came a blissful thoroughfare.
Marion was left alone to tend to her detainment;
her solitude emboldened by the frenzy she'd engaged in.
Her eyes were still alight with tears, her bugs began their chime;
and soon she would depart between the folds that crease in time.
The music played in fervor wound with crowd alive and swaying,
but Marion was rooted here with no real point remaining.
Stratus breached, her weights aloft, devoured by the folds;
she reached into the quaking rift with hands gone rotten, cold.
Into this familiar place with stillness she had missed,
Marion did settle in with a subtle, wing-tipped kiss,
and as she drowsed beneath the proud vibrations of her kin,
she dreamt of looming venues and her skin made genuine.

Woke one day, vision stretched;
barren skin, growing nails.
Bed had turned to pebbles, dirt,
with me beneath so cool, compact.
Thought to reach for glass to drink,
but claws could only grope the sand.
Grains to grip but thumbs have gone
and I can't seem to mourn their loss.
Seen the sun that floods the holes
where doors had stood the nights before,
stirring me, unburied there
and on four legs to skitter, scat.
Mouth gone dry - it tastes of flies,
but better to be filled with wing;
transparent as they flick and buzz,
pulled aloft by pinkened tongue.
Emerging from my hollow point,
loosen all my joints and bone,
and scamper at the waving trees;
they've turned to grass and sway by breeze.
The world engulfs me, consequence
of being small on land made large.
Greening at my outer edge,
yellowed on my belly bottom.
Sweeping carpets made of dust
to hunt for lesser; dodging more
and greater things on feathered tips
that dip from up above to catch.
My faculties are slow to leave,
instincts shake from dormancy.
I've witnessed first of setting sky
with eyes on the side of my skull.
My sense of scale diminished me
and left before I'm ruined, then.
Tomorrow I will know my prey,
or I may be prey to others.

A ball of puddy sat crackling
in the sun, at a peak afternoon
hour in which it could not find cover
or shelter from the burning star.
It attempted to coil into a ball
but was unable to hold the form
for more than a moment, and
it felt shame in its struggle.
It puddled flat to dry soil and
could only sputter to itself
as its thick and slick exterior
was turned into a viscous goo.
But a sudden resolve would find
its way to the substance at hand,
delivering a reason to continue
and a reason to harden to stone.
So the puddy curled and fought
to remain upright, spherical and
all the while, it hurt and began
to crumble and fall into disuse.
But when the sun did set and
the determination had settled,
the puddy found itself solid and
able to roll towards the shade.