Atop our heads, we place a special hat, We pull it off and that’s where verse is found. We look to Sklyark’s flight if we fall flat, Then link our words to pictures that resound. The muses visit us and words connect, They take on a life that’s all of their own. We write to witness humankind’s neglect. We need to question what we think is known. Some say our work is magic, I do not, Our senses bring together what we see. A metaphor makes meaning, hits the spot. Desire and death and love must all break free! Our witness brings awareness to the world. When tightly bounded thoughts can come unfurled.
(1) It was a mix of demons. Honour killing to save the damaged inside. You were found in lotus position, hands tied, buried in a hole. (2) The twin plants: god and goddess of procreativity were shedding trumpet-shaped pink flowers.
11 There is living after death, there is death before life, Ordinary living which is in scrambles of destituteness, Destituteness of idealism, of knowledge meaningful, of utter candidness. Dull realities of weeds, weeds of rampant ignorance, averment Of void words,