Lost

“If you feel lost, disappointed, hesitant, or weak, return to yourself, to who you are, here and now and when you get there, you will discover yourself, like a lotus flower in full bloom, even in a muddy pond, beautiful and strong.”
Masaru Emoto, Secret Life of Water   

 

Lost
                                Ships wreck

Walking through the question marks
Where will I go in this dark?
With the light dimming behind
How will I go being blind?
Screaming in my head, holding the candle near
Where will I go from here?
The path is crooked with cliffs along the way
Fear says never to go but only to stay

When there’s no sight from lack of light there remains no assurance in the steps. My soul’s being torn between ravenous beasts manifested by my torment. Faith, will you save me now? Will you come on the white horse of sanity and redeem my soul? These wasps follow me, stinging me where ever I go. I can hear the buzz of their wings while I sleep. There’s no healing from the swelling injections filled with the puss of their rape. What parts of me have died or are dying? Why can’t I tell? I know that bricks are missing in my wall and deleterious eyes stare at me from the holes. With all of this hell raging in and around me, I call out, as we all do in the foxholes of life, “GOD HELP ME”! He will, but how, it escapes me, but when, it eludes me, and in this moment I hang to what I know from His dealings with me in the past. I know He’ll help me, I know He’ll come, I know I’ll survive and be stronger yet for the next wave of human devils and demon thoughts.

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Love In A Wall – Laying the line –

“Sex is just another form of talk, where you act the words instead of saying them.”
– D. H. LAWRENCE, Lady Chatterley’s Lover

Sinewy wrists twist the trowel, 
causing it dance on the board 
gathering its share of love
along the way. 

Deftly, quickly, with a flick and a pull, 
a long even line is coaxed 
from the willing load. 

Movements define other movements 
setting up reciprocating pulses
in a syncopation of motion. 

Thick calloused fingers, 
pluck another willing blossom, 
forcing it to mate the bed of passion. 

Dance, flick, pull, mate, dance, flick, pull, mate. 
Tedium, repetition, yet, another brick. 
building an impassioned wall

Following hard after the mated pair, 
a tool pushes in binding them together, 
sealing their union.

Tools are useful said the young man to his master…

 

First published in Opinionsofeye.com

12292010