Wrong Planets

Fading is not what anger does on wrong planets.
Eating your will,
And then, regurgitating up, soupy remnants of your ideals.
Mass hysteria has become the norm.
Just a regular Joe,
Passing through,
On his way to multi-media la la land.
Firsts become lasts.
And they win, because they are all of you.
But for we who choose to stand apart,
One, two, three,
There remains only a single toast.
Heard by the we three who raised our vials to speak.
And through the imbibing,
Our beliefs,
Our bonds,
Are both cut and tied.
Or remain broken knotted solo strands.

Old Trees

Old trees eat old souls,
The long wait, time, space, containers to fill.
And finally the tired leaves exhale their burden
Once again into this world.

Cycles end and begin, simultaneously.
Dancing eternally, round and round and round,
The galaxy.

Wait and you will always.
If you move, you may lose.
Sliding downwards,
But stillness may prevent ever looking up.

Decisions come instantly, but processing is much slower.
Shall we wait or go?
It's another form of language, all may speak,
And do,
At once.
Yet those who watch instead of listen,
May learn more of each ones truths
And perhaps see their own slighted yens pass by.

A gesture wind like clear.
Final mountain slopes always lie ahead.
How are we mere mortals,
To acquire knowledge enough, to understand the single sign,
That leaves will always fall,
And new growth will always follow.
Each it's own perfect shade of green.

Eggs for a Drama Queen

Oh the silent stranger clad in black.
Sits alone.
A contemplative park bench.
Tourists of life are pushing by.
Idle conversation disturbs your brooding.
A glance back at her…
Still she still still sits still.
Waiting for her Romeo to come.
Does he? Wait and see.
Another city is still to come,
Another park bench.

She tries and tries and cries and tries to cry
But tears are rationed like eggs in war,
Like coins for a trip never taken.
Put in a jar,
And sealed up tight.
Never quite forgotten,
Or truly used.

I see her bound inside the tree,
Whose puzzle pieces lead nowhere visible to me.

It's easier to mourn in words than in your soul.
I wish I lived in a comic strip.
I could be the Drama Queen,
Always get my man, and still look good doing it.

Are you lonely?
I am.
What is that word that makes it so taboo?
Is it human desire to be with others or just with one?

Strength is within,
If you seek without looking.
But I'd rather live in a comic strip and be the Drama Queen.

Copyright © 2019 Free Flow Dance Company