Half-life

erichmichaels

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We’re all in a state of continual decay

Casting off neutrinos, alphas and betas

Dander and forgotten moments of yesterday

Fluttering to the floor is what their fate is

These motes of us become tomorrow’s dust

These particles dance in shafts of light

Thanks to wanderlust everyone breathes in us

Adrift on thermals we finally take flight

Look around now at all that you’ve collected

Owned and used by you or simply meddled

You are what you hold AND what’s rejected

A feather duster to clean on what you settled

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Eyes, Skies, Lies

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It’s okay if you feel like these are just words on a screen, and if that obscures the obscene from your mental regime than I cannot fault your resolve and try to topple your walls, if it’s somethin strange in your neighborhood and you don’t call Ghostbusters than I’m not sure we can really connect.
So. I see a lowered flag waving from your heart, and I want to help it fly boldly and proudly, to stand true and strong and somehow find light in private imagined darkened rooms, pre-emptively constructed tombs of doubt and despair, to climb up the ladders and fly up the stairs no matter how the stares and the glares might pierce you and demean, your challenges accepted, you are coming clean.
] tell me what you need
And I will provide
When they read of my love for her they look above her but none…

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Light And Pure

Heartstring Eulogies

“Why would a person
so light and pure
love something like me?”

You see, I never could reconcile how you could love me the way you do. It wasn’t just how I compared us — you were diamonds while I was nothing but dirt and rust. Why would a person so light, so pure, with such a beautiful spirit love something like me? After everything I’d been through? After the resulting person? But you did, and you do.

© Sarah Doughty

And for that,
I will always be grateful.

This was written for day sixteen
of November Notes.
Diamonds And Rust
by Joan Baez

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Oblation… Lois E. Linkens and Eric Syrdal

My Sword and Shield....

We walk towards a
promised land,
soaked in milk and softest
sand.

hard trudge
of cracked feet, muddled in
the mire
roadside ditches
dirge laden as they walk.

chapped and broken
mouths cry out
for a taste of sweet water
to imbibe the knowledge of
man’s long
dance with death.

and I, from my mount
stand tall against the ruined
sky
a king carried above the
filthy ash that
floats

upon the fetid wind from
the west
in the last days of the sun.

Our feet are hot, the path is
still.
We bend towards the
future’s will.

Your eyes are caved and bleak.
The road is long
when the trudge follows
only cloud dreams,
pink and blue and pale
but stupid drops in a
cracked palm.

Die – leave the children,
they can whisper
to the sky and gather
stones,
suck salt fingers with
dry pink tongues like
maple.

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Reminder

erichmichaels

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It had been so long that no one remembers just when it had happened. You’d think an event like this would be clearly recorded in our history, but like the wholesale slaughter of the Native Americans, it’s something those in power would rather forget—in order to feel human, that they’re part of something great. 

These little statues appeared everywhere and all at once. There were more in the areas you would expect to find them, at schools, parks, and grocery stores, but there were quite a few that must’ve formed in secret…in backyards and in bedroom windows. Rooted to the very ground upon which they stand, many were tried, unsuccessfully, to be moved, like atrocities from high school, social studies, text books, so we could go back to feeling normal.  This just wasn’t going to be the case. 

This horrific tableau. These children who were neglected and/or…

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#tbt Erosion

Brave & Reckless

knowledge pours over me

ice cold waterfall that leaves me

stripped bare

raw

pieces of the woman I used to be

washed away in the relentless flow

illusion of control and mastery

erodes

streams

over rocky hillside

to unseen reservoir

I long to cup my hands to drink

quench my unending thirst

but fatigue and tremor

make them sorry vessels

for these baptismal waters

© 2017 Christine Elizabeth Ray – All rights Reserved

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