In the old days we fished water from a well. Drinking like fools with unquenchable thirsts. Until the first community died, no one ever even thought about the ground water being contaminated. Until their children perished with sunken eyes and gapping mouths, not a single mindful soul acted with thought or cognitive concept. Confusion led to folklore and dogma like lambs to the slaughter.
An open wound of empathy can leave you like a robot swiveling and inhuman. The hilarity that exposes the duality’s movements swing like a pendulum displaying the loss of kindness in our society. Hacked to bits, left in a heap of insecurities. In acts of pretentiousness, superiority, cruelty and division. Cells of osmosis finding the place of function.
It’s niche. The group of individuals who cling out of survival and unchanging commonalities. The mutation is cancer, the opposition of growth.
In the center, of every human being there is a rage.
Consuming and faultering the innocent Childrens’ minds we had long ago. Experience, twisting and morphing the hope, in every baby’s eyes.
Some individuals can easily harness it like the power of the sun. Weave and bind the strings like a deity of energy. Radiating a heat that is surely pivotal or death proof depending on the need exhausted by its circular course of travel.
Oh, and the rocks. This cycle, all lunar, is abandoned to find a interpersonal fit made of chemical compounds and magnets. Allowing a force field of nature and its draw to the heat, effortless in a sinking of timing, purpose and soft seclusion.
Hardened spheres hanging in the lue, like a sopping towel, who should have been shown the warmth of the sun to expedite the drying process. Yet, this feeling or contingency lingers like the moisture, growing another form who refuses to stop its longevity.
When you give birth, the rage deepens.
Others might reflect it, be consumed or thrown into the depths of its very existence.
My daughter loves to spin in circles in summer dresses. Slowly, teaching herself to form and coil these teathers that bind us. My sons have taught me there are two polarities to pay close attentions to when a man decides his course.
Oh, the orbit. So individual, relevant and sincerely magical in its unique approach to the act of impulse.
In the floral out skirts, resides a truth. Flying aimlessly, lifting quietly in a smooth flutter. Brushing against an ear perched and disassociated, staring silently out an unlit window.
No one blamed the earth for the poison thrown down into the guts of the casualties.
She showed her rage without filter.
Yet the collective missed the affect of they’re own denied responsibility. Dumping destruction into the foundation of life has an equal or greater reaction, every damned action.
The rock that stayed steady in it’s need to grow. Far enough away from the ball of fire to see it’s purpose. Able to sustain it’s responsibilities and it’s natural drive, just
For love, not in the blazing star, but in it’s self and it’s creations.
The rage is a light, a beacon, an event horizon. The spark in the longest vibrating wavelength.
The love that resides here is the paste of all fear. Created to heal the reality of sorrow. Showing the contamination released in the dirt as a survival technic and it continues to seep into the well we once guzzled in the torrid heat.
The temple that once held the idea of relief, in a drink, is torn down feverishly for the dead. Stone by stone.
The water is now bottled in the same plastic that bridged the aqueducts demise. And everyone but the earth seems quenched.
Mouth open staring at the sky for a clean drop,