This is the sound her little mind makes
(when the woman outside with her head in her hands and
raw sewage running through her front door/center of aortic valve Ave.)
as she screams at her loved ones, consumed:
totally and utterly ended.
Some days are so fucking hard it feels like I’ve raised every bird off the ground.
There are saw teeth and sharp waves in those moments
(of unending death)
where circles and straight lines should be.
And my eyes have become raving mad men.
I don’t know them—
they don’t know me.
I can feel the bones in my feet playing fiddles at crossroads,
in prairies of maze and the wind
as I open my eyes—
which are not even eyes at all,
but grass growing over my grave.
No flowers grow here.
no children come here to leave smiles
or handfuls of tears;
no one leaves hearts at my feet.
These are the days—
the moments of passing—
where lifetimes rewind like civilizations on brinks,
and then walk out the water again.
Halleluiah! Can I get an Amen!
These are the times when I don’t trust my own life!
When trust has flown out of my mouth;
its sharp nails drawing pinpricks of blood
at my lips as it
in hearty typhoons!
When my hand
is a hand down the street,
writing in some foreign language,
with a mind
that can bend
a baleful of words.
These are the poems that I write
to plant flowers
where all devils meet;
at the crossroads so aptly named,
Let Thee Baptismal Begin!
© Kristin Reynolds 10 7 2010
life has picked up the pace in the last few weeks—I am currently batteling my stress levels resulting from lack of time for much other than chores and work.
I will not let that dark cloud win.