Our Collective

For those who are afflicted
Vanish as all stamina is spent
And, we will feel the weight
This foe and this fear
Without any rest we will rundown

Our collective spirit

Without any rest we will rundown
This foe and this fear
And, we will feel the weight
Vanish as all stamina is spent
For those who are afflicted

Permanent Marks

Line art, fine art, black arts, permanent marks,
All bits, like all points, on all prior parts.
Those scars, scrapes and all fusion of shapes,
New lines etched on what deteriorates.

In ink, a thirst or reflection fastened,
Imagery indelibly imagined.
Raw, renewed or repeated catharsis,
That bit of buzz and heart unharnesses.

The artist said there was only one rule.

That other Dimension

Espy and explore eratic echos,
Recklessly considering framed feelings.
Should I be more worried for that fellow?
He seemed constrained by his revealings.

His aspect was aligned within limits,
Until we chose diametrical doors.
Beyond his, my life may just prohibit,
Or maybe, just go missing for hours.

On the finding of confidence.

Can you recognize the aphotic doubt?
That midnight pool, you gently glide throughout.
The clot of air, horrid, humid worry,
Blurred branches fettering out in fury.

Bleary digits stretching out to quelch,
To trap, to tear, and to tow to the mulch.
Those lurid margins and high stands fornenst,
“Awake!” “Awareness!” to what they dispense.

The sharp jagged bank will set stiff your gait,
But the stones are surer than the callous hate,
Of copse that will hitch the wrong sort of knot,
And vicious impishness of faithless thoughts.

Let dilemma drip down to rest in tarn,
Hike the bituminous path, the creases worn.
Set high away from that stygian pool,
Scape your escape, in reminisce find fuel.

Alight that tinder of apprehension,
Of self-distrust, and fear of rejection.
Throw in the fire the bole of reluctance,
And have a moment of warm indulgence.

Can you recognize the aphotic doubt?
That midnight pool, your roots run throughout.