She seems to me the epitome of what destiny was meant to be.
Recently, she has been challenging the frequency her brain's been traveling,
enticing the sweater of thought to come unraveling.
Third eye's released, striving to ignore hazy doors that open into cold reality.
Burning knowledge like it grows on trees.
She's
skipping rocks on media brooks,
knocking rooks off blatantly bent balance beams,
landing on nimble feline feet,
Freedom Rides down crooked slides, a heady high created by dopamine.
Dancing through her dreams bow visions of veracity;
as tempting specialties become dishonestly concrete.
Fabricated forgeries spread thickly,
like honey on warm bread straight from love's own bakery.
Slow to face charming truth, we imprint our opinions discretely,
directly influenced by the economically replete.
We accept only the agreeable beliefs,
facts fussily side-stepped, rendering them obsolete.
Meanwhile,
Dice St. Deities treat themselves to dance with immortality
through Babylon's natural tantric heart beat
while tracks separate colorblind concrete
from monotone bricks created to calm Uncle Tom's irrational fears of the sweetly disillusioned elite.
His vessel shows the wear of time as repeat beatings still have the stub of his wings bleeding.
Attempting a resurrection of lost meaning,
lessons form themselves like wine from twisted grape vines.
Only with the fermentation of time can we freely revive honesty.
Tempting visions drunkenly painted on torn tapestry tease the mind with hazy imagery.
When dreams at last are given release, we find the fallen king recuperating sweetly,
residing among Hawai'ian tides, his heart is tied from distance over sea,
his cravings for familial connection appear obsolete
due to the importance of breaking free from the prison of self induced disease.
Meantime she's stumbling through closed doors, breaking through screens, and running away from responsibility.
Carrying children within worried womb, daylight's gleam
forces glazed eyes open though her instinct is for eternal retreat,
hiding beneath sheets has become as second nature as crying to christian savior when in need.
More than once now God has aborted the ones created to give her someone she thinks will never leave.
She misunderstands that consuming for two requires her to actually eat,
and through this we find haunting familiarity between
current proceedings and mother's erratic routines while raising the one called she.
Culturally cut off from her elders, even minimum wage seems to be out of reach.
If only this floundering girl could make it out to sea,
perhaps joining her fallen angel father could calm the storms; set her weary mind at ease,
albeit he is living on the beach.
As romantic as that image might seem to you and me,
it is stability that is needed for this filter fish, while high tides flow and recede.
She is tuned into the Earth Mother's sensitivity,
and wonders why she is drowning when Gaia's heart beat is becoming more fleeting.
And I am reaching, reaching.
I am trying so desperately, asking for wisdom that continues to elude me.
How can this scattered ohana once again become a "we"?
What will it take to help this lost Goddess to succeed?
Where is the answer we all so desperately seek?
It seems so hard to accept our own potency,
because that frees us from self induced captivity.
I pray for you, child, may you learn the lessons you so obviously need.
May your cravings for something to nurture turn into nurturing received.
May your hunger be satiated, and your worries all relieved.
May you continue taking breaths, and may you learn eventually to breathe.
I pray the browbeat expressions prepare you for what you will eventually be,
As I am of the mind that every experience is the planting of a seed.
And baby girl I truly do believe,
When the garden you are growing blossoms,
the bounty will be beautiful indeed.
© SABRe, 2013
 |
Feuerbach's Gaia
from Wikimedia Commons |
