Fantastically Reduced

Projections of the human mind
imposed upon the world.
A growing turmoil in the realm of soul.
Men claiming credit for the words
still birthed within the matrix of Her life.

They blurred the borders long ago.
Stole Her power - ancient, old.
Misused it and abused it in their greed.
So focused on themselves, they never,
even dared to see Her need.
The destruction of an evil thought,
in places and the spaces lent
to difference of beliefs. Not evil -
even as its opposite attacked.
Merely burdened with a mindset
of its own. Perilous, the life lived
on the deserts' heated sands.

Negotiation wasn't needed there,
nor were the politics that amplified
the differences that lived within
their merely mortal minds.
Adrift upon a sea of molten sand.
Wind blowing in the blindness of mere man.
Yet even there, She dreamed of blossoming.
Adjusting still, Her dream of life lived on.

The rain would fall sporadically.
And there, the beauty of the flowers
lightly called for all to see, the tiny
spans of wealth within their need.
A moment, or an hour, or a day -
could come to be eternity in ways that
always stayed within Her sweeping
ether's patterns.

An oasis in the desert where the cruelty
of mind and intellect, still chose to lend
their strength to win or lose. As if
the in between were nonexistent.
Searching for the unseen treasures
buried in the ever sparkling sands;
alas, their search turned to destruction
once again.

The aging of an image brings
a sudden sadness to the wings
of freedom that once flew
within the winds. Vampiric
in their moodiness. Sucking
life from others as if power
were the only thing they knew.

Where then, the soft and new
of springtime green...? Forever
held within the changing seasons
living in the in between. The vultures
screamed - at last another meal.
Rotting, putrid flesh and blood congealed.
Pluck the eyes that roamed the skies -
unbidden by humanity's hubris.

Darwin was a maniac. Einstein lived
within a constant feel of great neurotic fear.
Reaching for a source of safety
never held too near. The dance of life
moves on beyond the bounds
of species specified, and thus defined
as special. Each genius gathered
in delinquency, if truth be told.

A little one whose mother never dared
to let them grow apart from her. And herein
lies the measure of the gist of all their fear.
This is mine, it's good and true.
Overdue and underrated - still
the other side exists within the dreams
that they've denied existence. It circles
round and enters into them - just on the other
side of their beliefs. It matters not, the martyrs
nor the sacrificial lambs. What always
mattered most was just the way we choose
to live upon this land - one to an other.

Perhaps the greatest sin of all, is this -
that awful tendency of human-kind
to lay the blame on something they
think other than themselves or what they own.
"I think. Therefore, I am." And even then,
their God is turning over all the graves they dug.
The past is still alive, yet all the future hides
within the pit of fear and terror utilized
by both the good and bad within
their merely mortal eyes.

Sublimation is invisible within a tunneled focus.
And yet, there are those spirits, wise,
that point it out to them. Too often though,
they've chosen just to kill the messengers.
He blames her. And she blames him.
Together, they blame all of them.
And all the battling goes on and on -
astounding, for the battle really lies
inside of them. Seeping and enveloping
their sleepy dreams of some long-lost and
errant scheme that vibrates much too high
to ever satisfy their one real need.

Hearts beating just between the high and low.
If ever you should wish to know the truth,
listen to the whispers and then just let
the tides roll low and high into the sands
of thee. Where hues of color,
oft' thought lost, still bloom.

They blurred the borders long ago.
Stole Her power - ancient, old - refusing
to give back the very qualities they owed.
Misused Her and abused Her in their greed.
So focused on themselves, they never,
ever saw Her need - that proved to be
the seed of life - fantastically reduced
to natural...

? Michaelette ?

Copyright© 2003 Michaelette L. Romano
All Rights Reserved
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