Just drifting through the pain.
Discovering there is no one to blame.
Isolated memories still cling.
The extremities of night and day are shams.
Holding up the pillows that we lay our heads upon.
Bleeding ourselves into blind exposure.
Postulating light where shadows dwell.
Sighing in a solitary cell.
There are so many stories left untold.
Gathering within imagination.
Waiting for the chance of an expression.
The blood was running thicker
as a whispering of daunting, taunting
darkness filled their souls. For all the pain
they ever left untold. Their irritation turned
to aggravation even as the anger blossomed
into white-hot rage. They felt as if they had
become some animal that paced its cage.
Reduced by an infection of their over-zealous
intellects. Inflated over centuries of power
used to fuel the greatest wars. Terror born
within the hands that seemed to turn to claws.
Within, without, beyond the flesh
are auras that must intermesh.
While changelings drifted closer to the real.
Drifting into solid forms like mist that sinks
into the sea, unnoticed.
It always started with the little things.
Like a twinge that hadn't quite become a pain.
Or floating up while sinking in the sand.
The memories were overflowing.
Dancing through their veins.
Insanity was stealing round the bend.
Quaint, the numerology of mind.
Ever reaching out to find
the seven tiers that ran into eleven.
Where magic dwelled in spells
no longer driven by mechanics.
Shape-shifting into something other there.
Within a glow of light that never glared.
Winging into yet another glide.
To feel at one. To be the sun.
While basking in another rainbow's glory.
Receiving bounty never asked.
Untangling those awesome, awful knots.
A kink uncoiled, the feeling flowing free.
Oh joy of joys, the little things.
Still calling us to be...
? Michaelette ?
Copyright© 2005 Michaelette L. Romano
All Rights Reserved
Take me home . . .