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There is no imagination even
to find the journey
with lovers, dance and sacrament.
Evening shadows of vessels block the shore, the portals.
No tides, no swell. No circles of sun and moon.
Just flatland -well calculated, illustrated, dramatized and over spoken.
The daily grind , the inland
of forgotten life and being.
Image with gratitude via “Capturing The Imagination” WordPress.com
His poverty of love betrayed every effort
and he settled for survival-
afraid even of comfort
a man alone in a mind framed by fear.
His death came as could be expected-
outside, nature fallen.
Along his years-
he was loved without knowing how to love,
embraced not knowing how to hold,
home not knowing how to father.
Yet in this moment, in this breath
he is today beloved.
photography courtesy of Sarah Vaughn
The story deep in the marrow of my life betrays the simple touch of air to skin. Blood-spilt memories lay unheard, unknown but pulse with my breath and soul.
The stains of love and hate look the same in me and equally reflect the tragedy of my fears-
and I pray for reconciliation.
Photography courtesy of Ginny Hunt
I am so captured in telling of tales, foreign reflections reframing reveal
fears clouding my sun blocking my view
mind wondering, narrating a hurt or failed feud.
The sound of my steps meter the beat, linked to the pace of breath and repeat
Then fear unto death strikes from the south
eyes widened with terror, scales fallen off.
Captured no more, my heart in a beat
gasps with a cry and swallows a scream
free to regret, confess and relive
knowing the now was
lost once again.
Photography courtesy of Peter Corr