Blind
Is a woman a blind animal of fertility,
a green sprouting in a forest of Ponderosa,
weak in the shadow of man?
The night is cold: the truth burns,
an endless fever upon young foreheads.
Ash covered brains; once were bright,
now burnt out.
Wisdom is temporary,
like the rings we see nevermore.
Commitment; twice burnt and now smoldering.
We desire to rise above treetops
and imprison our temptations.
Slave
The man sits, no longer able to bare a full beard.
Twisted, black wires sprout from behind the scars.
Drips of sweat and tears tumble down his nose.
He crawls to no one,
screams to no one, yet he is not alone.
A servant to suited men,
a tool to use.
The wall remains unseen; cracked, molded
by the hands too dirty to love.
Destiny
Curled in a ball with my own loneliness,
crystals begin to form.
Our eyes widen, wakening over this dream of life,
inside discontortion of our bodies,
as our vines are untwisted and torn from each other.
The creaky, thorned stalks of the bewildered,
pierce our prayers; as they wrap and suffocate us with innocence.
The twigs snap; my crystaled heart begins to feel again.
My ears hurt with the wind screaming.
Past sunsets of reds and blues flicker across my eyelids.
Finally?
Or was it yet another dream?