Wolves no longer hide in the woods
spurred on by the scent of bloodlust,
whiteness of their fangs sharpened
on the righteousness of iconic fear
No, they find no need for subterfuge
emboldened by this weakened state
society’s heartbeat erratic, signalling
a collective rot…the wolves circle.
(Image my own)
A branch is falling,
family tree faltering
Where do new sprouts bud
when major limbs have died?
Orphaned mood fearful of rot.
(Tuesdays, I borrow from Twitter @Vjknutson. Image my own)
Guide me to source
offer all that I ask, but Â
I have no voice…
Desire cut off in formative years
a product of dysfunctional loyalty
I am tethered to other
submissive by conditioning
Have forgotten my primal roots
my lupine instinct numbed
by domestication
Lead me to riches
and I will balk at the door
wander off distracted
It is not indifference
but an inability to relate
the concept of deserving
beyond my reach.
(Image my creation)
The loom on which
I weave
these threads
is more foreboding
than machinery
These fibres,
neither silken
nor wool,
cottoned
from misadventures,
miscommunication,
and inner unraveling
The mind,
an unpredictable
seamstress,
fabricates a flawed tale –
silver threads of wisdom
sewn between precarious lines –
consumer be wary.
(Image created by AI. This is an edited version of the original.)
This trail is a trial:
I’ve wheeled myself
through impossible
terrains, battled
unforgiving odds
regained purpose…
Is this resilience
or a stubborn refusal
to surrender, and…
who will dare criticize?
(Tuesdays, I borrow from Twitter @Vjknutson. Image my own)
Flowers awaken
imagination – magic
paints the garden bed.
(Image my own)
River in the sky
exudes an eerie glimmer
cloud forms orchestrate
haunting melody – music
eliciting soulful tears.
(Tuesdays, I borrow from Twitter @Vjknutson. Image my own)
Blue expanding
crisp white
of tiny sails –
horizon
The lull is gentle
lucidity swelling
serenity present
How safe it is
to imagine limitlessness
when I am grounded
breast to railing
anchored ashore.
(Image my own)
Is it selfish
this chosen solitude?
How I treasure silence,
stillness baiting my muse
And is it my calm
that attracts chaos?
The sorrow of others
landing on my doorstep
What if I rejected pleas,
locked out the troubles?
How long can I sustain
peace until need answers?
(Tuesdays, I borrow from Twitter @Vjknutson. Image my own)
Does illness have a voice,
and if so; is it melancholy,
or dark and dank, divulging
deepest despair, or revealing
a vileness of nature?
Discord creeps along my veins,
disrupts muscles, systems failing
under the oppression –
“Stay strong,” friends counsel,
cannot hear the gathering storm,
feel the heaviness cloaking me.
I am not myself, but then;
who am I? Is disease a mutation
of the original sin – punishment
for fatal sins, or redemption
wrapped as trial – the whispers
gain clarity – I am faltering…
(Discord originally appeared here May, 2019. Image my own. Living with chronic, often debilitating disease, is an ongoing challenge. There is no cure, no end in sight, and yet, we must go on. This is for my fellow warriors, wondering, some days, what it is all about.)
One Woman's Quest 