So tired of it all. I have been forgotten.  I yell, I scream.

The noise drops into the black hole of the universe in the middle of the phone that I have sat staring at forever. Why have you forgotten me? And I am so easy to forget. Wait – am I really? I forget myself, but that is on a good day.

I go to work and take care of those more fortunate than I. They are oblivious to the bitter I eat. That is as it should be.  But I am not a martyr. Damn it, no. I will not spread my arms for you to nail me to your bloody cross. But, too tired to fight any more, I awake to find you leaning over me. Hammer in one hand and nail in the other, you were poised to pin my hand to your damn cross. “Leave me be,” I yell at you. You shrug and walk away.

Now that I have sent you away, I wonder why I have been forgotten. Had you no better use for me than to hang me from your bloody cross? I have skills, uses, magic. You missed them all, having as it were your own agenda. And again I am alone and tired.

The tiredness takes on a life of it’s own. A hungry, sick tiger. Eating irritably until too tired from the exertion of feeding, only to fall asleep face down in the carrion. Waking again to lap weakly at the blood spilled on the floor. But there is not enough wholesomeness to recover. I fall back asleep.

I am tired, tired, tired. Of being the martyr. Of feeding you the best pieces and laying on the floor licking up the blood. I will not be nailed to your cross. I am not your martyr.

Jolene   April 2011

Cold and glistening,

the drifted snow

reflects the complete satisfaction of this moment.

Triumph of a single accomplishment

wipes out the gray miasma

of all the frustrating failures

in this life.

Clarity like rarefied air

rests inside my skull,

a newly set jewel

whose cool fire

I can grow accustomed to.

Where’s the need for niggling worry?

Nowhere to be seen.

Where’s the anxious fist of attention

that crushes each possibility it glimpses

with its fearful grasp?

Gone. 

Perhaps rusting quietly

at the bottom of a warm lake of wondrous possibilities

flowing through my experience of a true spring,

however wounded and imperfect;

nonetheless fresh with new life

in forms never before imagined.

Moh Breath

April 28^th 2011