A frayed, torn edge dangles in the stove-hot wind.
Antiseptic thoughts drip from her cold, charcoal eyes—
What could she do but try and mend?
Tongue like thread, voice the unplugged machine.Spit to shore by a black lake, landing on musty old leaves.
Each and every boxed up, packed away tear crashes
to the forefront—yesterday cracks wide open.
She screams it out: all her sadness, all the madness.Dark clouds release the past, drenching the moment.
It seeps down, channels through new ground;
a dormant seed awakens, busts through the rock.
Yes! the sun is coming out!The dark, sinister heel is lifting.
A hairball falls from the mouth of discontent.
The sad-faced wind-up toy goes over the fiery edge.
Down comes the sunlight, in thousands of rays;descending, cleansing arrowheads of light from the sky.
Golden needle-points sketch her eyes into rainbows.
They may be small, but in sheer numbers they conquer.
She stands up, wipes herself off,and skips a rock over the blue lake.
The benevolent scenery picks her up in its vines;
tosses her over to the flipside of life.
(From the book Kairos)