The Struggle, IS Beautiful

Take these words and re-empower yourself.

The Struggle, IS Beautiful.

Face to the ground, 

Animus exposed. 

The weakest competitor falters in this moment.

Afraid to whisper, 

To plead at their feminine feet. 

Nona, spinning the thread of life from distaff to spindle.

Decima, precisely measuring vita with her ruler-like rod.

Hovering over, 

The Fates arrange the civility of assault. 

Conquerable cowardice,

Victimized by the looming beats and bruises.  

Clinging pathetically to barbed bush, 

Afraid to lift the proverbial head.

Dust in mouth, pebble and sand grit caught in the sharp teeth of life.

Eyes re-fuelled,

The oil lamp called spiritus, 

Reignited for the steady drive on the darkest of interstate stretches.

Graduated evidence of worth, 

Against the building blocks of character, 

A compounded sense of privilege.

Without the map, 

The corners masked by shadiness, 

The bends sharp and caustic.

Equipped with a singular weapon,

Fides.

The struggle has purpose, 

It is loathsome, 

It is objectionable and sacrificial.

From it,

Blooms.

There is middle ground in this.

From the ashes of strife will arise a god.

Achromatized is Memory

Lying there, 

Connecting popcorn ceiling dots. 

Heart pounding violence.

A god inspired bone cage,

Pressured by heavy breathing, 

Anxiety compounded by the pretense of hypotheticals.

Vague lines forming, 

The artist's brush in motion, 

Etching figures that look just as we do.

Imprinting your likeness in my cerebral cortex.

I want so much to believe in our potential, 

In our natural right to exist.

No borders, No restrictions. 

An endless expanse.

Your animation trafficking itself for imperforate repose.

Motionless, 

Picturesquely fastened in anatomical corners of my cognizance. 

Never retracting backwards. 

Seldom retracing the footprints of heart.

Propelling forward, 

Capturing every sequence, 

Cementing the imagined into the vividly real.

The spotted darkness.

Simulating a set of manifold patterns. 

Mimicking the familiar, 

Abducting phrases, bottling gestures. 

Releasing an outpouring of scenarios.

Puzzle pieces, jaggedly neat, 

Figuring squarely into this retelling we call ours. 

Speaking faintly to me,

As entire days erase. 

Words first recognizable, now painted over with one skillfully crafted stroke of time. 

Quizzically on stand-by, 

Wondering how to reach for, stretch for, 

The rewind button. 

Befuddled. Brow furrowed. 

Vapourous clamour. 

Your lips venture softly, 

Caressing the words that prescribe termination.

Memory, recreated, 

Tarnished, 

Blanched, 

Achromatized from my retention.