Sunday's day of demons. I'm older now, and more sure of what I don't know. Perhaps they saw a woman of courage. Settled. Reborn. But I know better; they embraced me as a lost sheep and when at home, they prayed for my fat, naked, lost soul as they crawled into bed. I've lied under less pressure.
Now Monday morning's suburbia returns to a low hum of municipalities. I have my own things to do, but for the life of me I cannot figure out why. Clip the grass, transplant growing things, tame the yellow archangel only to have it all go wild as soon as it can. There is little satisfaction in managing that which will not end.
And dawn delivered no paragraphs. Yet, a roadmap out of Orlando – where the noduality rubber meets the crimson my-way-or-the-highway. On good days, it all belongs. Yet on this day it is obvious that my body still lives with the blood which yearns for another way.
Mountainous sleep or glaciers of oblivion. The stony pilgrimage between is a fine line the Otherness must erase.
And what about now? This?
The mourning dove nestles among gingered needles. How intentionally his softening coo cradles the untethered cries of the orphaned mind.