You misconceive the calling, says bird in bush – troubled times call for comfort not derailment of humanity – petty, bickering without soul – I may be bird-brained but human sense has the consistency of overripe fruit.
(Tuesdays, I borrow from Twitter @Vjknutson. Image my own)
The eight of cups – an octopus balancing multi-tasks; I juggle fog, attempt to calibrate logistics but instincts are dull-edged, my tentacles lacking suction – will slither back into hiding.
(Tuesday, I borrow from Twitter @Vjknutson. Image my own)
The woman currently abiding within this costumed realm is merely a lethargic version of the once vital but oppressed Miss, whose identification was stolen by means of unsolicited adversity.
The focus of this recanting is to invite a perspective that not only restores, but aids in the teaching of other shadow-selves, that to reassert original nature is more than fair.
(A quirky rant for Reena’s Xploration challenge: a stolen identity ; and Eugi’s weekly prompt: shadows. Art my own)
I wake before dawn, drive through blinding snowstorms, if lost, alter course – without faltering – even set out on foot when driving becomes impossible, navigating treacherous snow and ice, for you
So you can get where you need to be So you can succeed I risk it all for you
I keep you by my side so that you will be safe so that I can ensure your arrival
But, I grow weary, and my body won’t go on, and all I ask for is that we rest awhile, so that I can catch my breath
And in that instance, you are gone – no hesitation in your step, no looking back – and when you finally stop to wait for me it is too late…
A barrier has grown between us: like an eight-foot, chain-link fence separating me from protecting you
And you look at me with that glare of exasperation that says: “I should have done it on my own.”
Wait! Wait, I say. This wall may seem insurmountable but I can do it. I can do it; give me time. I’ll just climb to the top. It’ll be easy; you’ll see!
Don’t walk away! Give me one more chance to prove my love. I do it all for you.
(Martyr’s Lament first appeared here in November, 2014. This version is a rewrite. Image my own.)
Morning melee with coffee pot – canister escaped grip contents scattered clean up ensued sharp warnings to dogs eager to help – second round forgot to empty pot hot liquid seeping everywhere – I’m a tea drinker.