She whirls with anger, ruckus in the wind,
defeat ripping the leaves from Her limbs, murderous
The loud groans of the heavy-engined monsters drown out the smooth
melodies of the winged choir,
the critters run blindly along the smoggy roots and stones,
their nearby comfort a distant memory
while the plants scream a silence the pierces the soul
of Her terrain
In Her own defense, She pulls the rain from the clouds,
scraping Her nails across the sky and leaving Her threats
of bright lit bolts
With a heavy downpour, She begs, She pleads through the
waves nearest to the furthest seas for the simplicity of being,
but Her sorrows go ignored and shall continue so,
for the infiltrating noise surpasses the frequency of peace
with the intention to crack Her core,
And it is then, with unfortunate delight, that She may engulf
us all into Her fiery wrath
Peace
Within This Realm
It was kismet
the way the grey kissed the sky
Flush with the tears from the gods up high
The mist squeezed eagerly from the pregnant clouds
rogue drops hitchhiking on the coat tails of the wind
along the bend of the mountain tops
mist turned to sleet and fell at the feet of the
royal oaks the lined the richest banks of the
loneliest rivers
A quiver of Zeus’s breath sent a fresh gust
of scented earth shooting across the face of the planet
As the clouds slept along the edge of the heavens
peace rained heavily amongst the soil
The Trendy Hoax of Serenity
Struggling often to find the inner peace
that every one else seems to have
drains me to the point of being non-existent.
It is then that I realize
that the others are faking,
their smiles as plastic as the water bottles
they sip from in their desperate attempts to be fashionably healthy.
Clever, I suppose, but none the more wise,
easily the lies will creep from their mouths
spewing advice on ways to better myself.
A heavily needed honest look in the mirror
would drive them to the big leather chairs
of the nearest psychologist office,
sniffling and shuttering over the same fears
they told me were basic excuses not to thrive,
excuses not to pass my past.
Cunning ol’ me, I’ll slip them a compliment,
indulge them in a witty frenzy of things
they’ve only seen pictures of and never experienced,
just to feed that starving ego they’ve fashioned
to please the same peers who know just as less as themselves.
Engaging in their fabricated worlds foster a
bliss more pure than a flower not yet blossomed
in a bed full of the richest soil.
I have found peace amidst the chaos of all things untrue.
What's Right Is Write 