created and man-made, holding lives in the hands and dictates sorrows and joys. Slow and steady, never-ending, eternal, but never enough. capturing moments on squares smeared with ink. the hands never letting go.
grandfathers stand tall and watch as the owl makes her best. she sings lullaby's to her children, as they lay to rest. restful days and restless nights. blankets covering who rest peacefully. the hands place bouquets by their bedsides.
standing on a log amongst the swallowing waters, the hands beckon to cross the cavern. the owl and her children soaring high above the waters. with lifeless lungs and barely a grasp reaching for the hands and they stretch across. standing tall and looking grandfather in the face. the hands wrapping around with an unbreakable grasp.

The lesson is
we are not less then
other men
but different
in our radiance.

Some may shine bright
while others wear a light
that is on another spectrum
one that most humans
are not even looking for.

“Its just too much.
Its just
too ******* much,”
she thinks.

As she drinks
a thick liquid
filled with
the pills
she feels
will make her
cease to feel
anything.

Specifically, perfected
the pills that she selected
we’re taking by design
to stop her body
and her mind.

With the last bits
of her energy
she gently sweeps
her cats out of
the rooms where she
plans to sleep
eternally.

“Don’t want you guys
to eat my face,
while my rotting corpse
attract a lot of flies,”
she says with a cynical
chuckle.

Consciousness edging out
she slits her wrists
to hedge her death bet.

Then she collapses,
a bridge broken
under the pressure
of three years
of compounding pain,
disappointment,
and heartbreak.

Almost two days later
she awakes
to a numb face,
and clumsy brain.

Drained,
she stumbles in vain
to get cleaned up
and go to work.
Does everything
but
shaves her legs.

She checks her pain
physically nothing hurts
but emotionally
she cannot ascertain
anything with any
certainty.

Still, struggling.
With doubt
but she reaches out
to her mother,
and finds a way to
connect to another
as her small circle
draws her
back to a life
she is still not sure she wants.

Can we be
fine without past
if we find happiness
and peace
presently.

For the illusion
of a love lost,
the delusion
that love costs
some steep
sacrificial price,

She would burn
this shallow life,
slit the throat
of those she knows
to hear the note
of honest hearts
gurgling in
their skepticism.

For the sake of
the lie called love,
that chemical drug
she is feening for,
that sad score
that doesn’t
really exist anymore,
she would restore
the weaknesses
she once deplored
and explore
any other bit
of madness
to get this
******* back
even though
it was never
what she thought it was.