Poetry_In_her_eyes

  Between Creation and Collapse How she came to be is something of a mystery that she grew to love in a winter garden is a wonder of the world Her spirit pruned cut off at the roots yet like a weed she pushed her way upward through the broken concrete of her dreams Flowering at last under the cloudy skies of the past possessing the fierceness of feral growing things loving the sun but not hating the rain I picture her with flowers entwined in her hair as she carries a garden tucked safely in her arms The reality quite possibly much less romantic but far more endearing holding a small child's need with a bird's nest for hair a vignette of life in the morning sun

  The living dead There's a war going on that's not about borders or rare earth metals nor about greed There's a war in which no one speaks of the horror of the living dead Our silence is our shame the quiet ... a tragedy numb and mum and dumb People have stopped caring about our humanity or if we have a soul Stopped caring about the inner spark that made living feel whole We live in a world that treats everyone the same not as human beings but as machines Is it any wonder we are all going mad The war for the human race came not from outside but with a slow creeping numbness leaving us half dead