A Flame in the Dark

The knowing dances into me (gritty and wild) through open eyes and waiting tongue. I taste the veracity shards you try hiding under a shroud of not-so-silken lies (something is rotten). For a spell, my eyes consider weeping for the worms you boiled before they could morph into moths. Then I remember: liquid mourning cleanses, but rarely fixes a thing. So my soul sucks in sadden salts, crafts them into living fuel, lets them burn for a better day. I don’t conceal what grows in me. I open my all, under the licks of moon and sun, and I let you watch.

a flame in the dark,
breeding everlasting bright,
rebirthing new hope

photo by Zoltan Tasi, on Unsplash

- this poem came to mind, after I overheard someone say, “I can’t watch the news without crying or wanting to hide. Are you alright?” Although the person wasn’t talking to me, I still thought, “Change ‘crying’ for ‘screaming’ and ‘hiding’ for ‘raging’, and you and I would feel exactly the same way about our society’s general state of crappiness.”

– for Poets and Storytellers United (Friday Writings #162:Joy in Chaos)

Cackling Into the Storm

I refuse to fear might-be horrors. Fretting over what’s yet to kick me in the jaw, in the gut, in the breast… is losing half the battle (perhaps the war). Yes, I care. No, I’m not pretending or hoping it will go away--my monsters and I sip honesty from the same clear cup. We slow dance brow-to-brow, mouth-to-mouth, our hearts bleeding into each other’s ribs. When misery threatens to kiss me, I show teeth, mount my muse, and devour those cruel lips (ink at the ready). 

holding my passion
by horn and halo, I ride
cackling into the storm

photo by Nicolas Thomas, on Unsplash

- for Poets and Storytellers United--Friday Writings #89: You Laughed, You Cried, Now You Write.