The Mother to hurt, she sings old but enchanting melodies; and as I sit listening, her voice, the sounds of lyrical light, spin, illuminating a mystery of webs. To her every thrill, I surrender; to the rise and fall of nuances, I tremble. Where ends the nervous tide rushing the stream? The preponderance of waters slipping over the falls? Only she comprehends sweetness in darkened light, the tenacious tenderness that is her fingertips.
The woman’s ardent simplicity allures me. She is the flower, the stormy skies, the steamy rains. This ageless beauty whose delicate lines characterize her face. A timelessness without void. The degree of everything assuring one thing, one thing-but take care, the illusion of midnight…did you feel it?
Strangely, such simplicity conjures critical thinking; questions better left to higher intelligence. As such, I could father neither psychological nor emotional critiques as to (even) begin conversations of worth. Yet, here, I sit as she bends and shapes me, molds me, reconstructs this dinosaur into something It could never be, something It would never become. She is Mastress to metamorphoses, Mother to the moment, and this moment and as her creation, I am:
The moments lapse, while next to me you sleep.
Outside, rains feed the starving skies and foliages.
Outcomes, matters of choice or chance? I am better
served by forgetfulness but submit to memories.
Lying here, the terms, like water, flow into my mind.
Oxymorons, palindromes, portmanteau. Willingly,
we don pretentious masks, caring to believe that
without them, we are forgiving, honest, truthful.
Did I ask of you; and did you offer, memory fails me;
for, forever, it seems that loyalty and even support are
not the obligations of crutches. What brand of repulsion
ravishes raindrops; and then makes them cry;
and is it not sad?
Unlike non-negative roots, our radical emotions
negate; degrees of despair whirling wildly, soaring to
fourths, fifths, higher. And then acquiring the nth
degree, we violate critical thinking.
Borne by unknowns, we are rawdata, variables, pieces
adorning Chess Boards; our end games subject to the
Heavens and Hades.
The mirror reconfigures our appearances. Our reflections
regard us deceitfully. Anatomically, and inside the brilliant
womb, we experience metamorphoses, we mutate. Nevertheless,
the bending of our forms fails the bending of our lives.
Healing is relative and time heals, sometimes. Recovery,
distant; discovery: daunting. Like honeybees, sorrowful
tears lure us; they sweeten our lives, they are our lives.
Inside the Cosmos, colloids randomly connect, and
during which, esteemed questions of life arise, choices
are never chances, but and apparently, the answers are
Shortly, the rains pause and then the clouds illuminate;
Science and the Heavens entice me, I am content and at
ease; and then effortlessly; and, almost as if consciously,
susurrating winds disperse the clouds, exposing lost dreams.
Breathlessly, I cannot help but wonder, which of them are
Copyright (c) 2015 Delbert H. Rhodes