I question why I count the swirls above my head,
more than my blessings.
Obsessing over the work of an unknown assailant
who has long forgotten the empty space
of an unused room.
Fascinated by the insignificance
of another home,
to a man,
Who once resided in its barrages.
Does the man wonder if his work is cherished?
Does he ponder his autonomy?
Perhaps he can hear the ringing in his ears
and hallucinates another tear-stained face.
Does the unsung hero of my imagination,
know my name?
Or is this the price I pay,
for a well-worn clock
that can’t be bothered by another day.
The Bed has attained my shape,
and gained her own mortality.
She has earned her own muffled pleas
for my return to reality.
No longer can the Bed sleep
to escape my insanity,
because I weigh her down,
with the rest of humanity.
The Bed turns cold
because its warmth is worn on me.
Her sinews strained,
from my selfish immobility.
Her laments drowned out
by cowardly cheers,
“I’ll surely make this my year”.
Even the bed tires of my company.
The mountain knows that man is weak but announces its power in earnest faith.
I’ll be in Colorado: Painting with the Colors of the Wind
This quote inspires me on a daily basis to create something from my trauma.
By looking back, I can look forward.
I am just beginning, but I would like to thank everyone who reads my poetry/opinion pieces. Thank you, for following me, and thank you, for appreciating my art.
Xo – Kelsie
In a hypnosis of a descending form,
mesmerized by the distilled song.
No longer entranced by a bitter source,
allowing Nature to take its course.
Think of Life’s jubilation,
and give each Petal its admiration.
Yellow trumpets dance in delight,
mesmerized by the nourished song.
Breathe the aroma of Petrichor,
and feel the gods origin,
as you get closer to great riches,
forget your place and the forbidden
for nothing may challenge a Tree during a storm.
Sit still and admonish the Falling Form
hypnotized by a drip-drop song.
No longer encumbered by mortal sin,
giving Nature its violin –
The song plays on …
Glowing is the secret to life’s re-source,
Gold and brawn at its source.
Dancing fairies deliver delight
and take away my mundane plights.
Always surrounded by a warm embrace,
chasing away life’s constant disgrace.
Confound by her reactive attraction,
rejoicing in her benefaction.
I find life and mutual jubilation.