observing
The Mat
"Say it ain't so,
trapper in her own little world,
the sounds, smells,
and whirl of the ceiling fan
spins unnoticed,
unfelt,
with the security
and familiarity of her headphones.
The music,
unknown,
the art that is decorating
her time
sealing away
the ugly world around her.
Given unto her
the superpower
to make the whole wide world
completely melt away.
Her eyes never breaking
a horizontal plane,
not out of submission,
but from avoidance.
The lack
of eye-contact
can be unsettling to some,
perhaps to the ones
who cannot stand silence.
But in silence she works,
folding her laundry,
being sure to block all view
of any unmentionable
she plucks up
to fold.
To the observation
of the outsider,
an observer
would see or anything
practically any and all
back story
only to be
most likely
incorrect.
And she will never care,
never know
she is the topic of light scrutiny,
so that script can be written,
the unaware volunteer
for the unwarranted play
playing in front.
For there is nothing but a scene,
of washers and dryers,
an incredibly clean location,
and with the only movement
being the one
who has made a point
that she does not want
attention;
she becomes the only subject
on stage.
A boring play.
Smelling of fragrance;
after the rain."
A Breeze of Memory
A graveyard of dead trees
Fallen leaves of vast red and orange seas
Squirrels scurry before winter strikes
As children play while others pass on bikes
A harmony of the trees an the wind come together and sing
As a bird chirps then stops to clean it's wing
Children shrieking and screaming as they play
Angry armies of cars roar past, then fly away
Memories start of when I was a kid
Only broken away by time an what it did
Sitting still only in question
Of who I am and to what is my impression
I laughed . . . I played here
I was happy unknown of fear
But then reality again breaks memory's connection
Only to be lost again, still unknown of my reflection