stated. Almost true.
Seeing through the eyes of you.
Unimpassioned written words.
Anchored in an ancient lair.
Not noticing how now the castle
crumbles at their every living whisper.
Wanting more, they asked too much.
out from under
all the years of gross abuse.
Wandering blind alleys through
the complex paths that intermesh
between all age and youth.
Listening, discarding the excuse.
Burning out the shame and rage.
Shouting out upon a stage
that holds just one alone.
changing in a heartbeat.
Those relations all turned bittersweet.
To try to simplify the lies that bind.
Finding that they still won't leave your mind.
For we have lived too long
amid the misconceptions.
Believing in the goodness
once contained in every soul.
Before the many sold
themselves for gold.
still we seek to find another way
to ease the pain of everyday.
While more and more
the movement makes it worse.
We need to walk
the right-hand course again.
Where intuition makes it intimate.
Within a space that cannot be condemned.
Where limitless potential dwells -
hidden in the darkness of our cells.
though we know
more pain might come.
It never was the sum
of our experience of life.
Not long ago, I watched my mother die.
Eighteen months of helplessness that
always weighed too much for me to move.
For she had reached a point
beyond my heart to heal.
curse of the humanity I hold.
Yet deep inside I knew it made
a difference for the better.
Just the simple fact that I was there.
Facing my own death would be
so easy in comparison to that.
But through her life she taught me
how to fight the great conventions
and the crowds of nosy intervention.
fate was sealed.
This poetry is mine.
For good, for bad. For right, for wrong.
The lines can merge into a song.
That sings itself in all that's said and done.
Across the distance, closeness comes.
Within a sound that rings between
the words we seldom speak aloud.
Soul expressed, a certain sense
of wisdom enters in. Another test.
Between the beats, we rest.
But not for long.
long enough to heal
the gathering of others' ill.
We did not make it so.
A flash of light.
We come. We go.
Hiding where the darkness dwells.
It seems too deep for us to tell.
Yet rising up, the words create themselves.
Forming into phrases through the phases
named as increments in time.
Youth lends itself to other generations.
As we ponder over inflammations
never meant to last.
Busying ourselves again
in order to avoid any conclusion.
that our death
has never yet to enter into this,
While here it lives.
We must forgive
the power that makes it so.
And hold it to us,
closer than a friend.
Else all is lost.
The cost too high.
The spirit flies.
Upheld by just
the living light
? Michaelette ?
Copyright© 2005 Michaelette L. Romano
All Rights Reserved
Take me home . . .