A young woman treads in circles
caught at a crossroad of decision.
Her eyes bleed confusion, knowing
she lost herself in their image.
Dreary and afraid, her lotus
fades, peeling open her rawness,
exposing a weeping child
grown, pleading for direction.
She leans against the body of her
grandmother, listening to her stories,
trying to find meanings behind
images sketched in her branches.
Her grandmother’s wise words
echo the shadows of answers.
Teaching the young woman
to dive into fresh waters and
flow with her intended path.
©River Urke 5/2011
thoughts form like stitches
The machinist of the mind
connects truth with lies.
Watching the world diffuse
words on paper-yellowed
by time, nicotine and impatience,
wiped clean with stains of
Blasphemy’s a sin;
so is breathing when you’re beneath
the boss man’s big fat thumb,
but those words,
they kept me sane until they disappeared.
When the rain came, wanted to dance.
Grab the first wide boy that came
my way and kiss him sensless,
or at least until he saved me from
spending the last few pounds in my pocket.
Instead those words were formed,
commited to memory
washed away with the first
obese raindrop to fall from the mottled horizon
in over ten years.
So be it,