There is always something remarkable

There is always something remarkable

Happening to somebody

Doing something

Somewhere.

Even as I sit in solitude

Barely visible to another living soul

My mind is untethered

The fruit of my body is corporeal,

Fleshly whole.

The sights I see are in some part, me

The doors open to persuasion

Whether in a dream or as an expression

Of magic.

I know nought of much

Other than old crows' screech

For something more than excitement

What is it they know

From their vantage point

Atop yonder tree

Looking down at the earthbound,

Overlooking me.

Where are all the bodies buried?

The ones who have fallen

The devil’s own

The burden of proof lies in the living

Or so they say after a dram or two

When the spirit is upon them

Do I fly from here

Through the deathly halls

Over the bloody fields

Neck deep in the blood

Of the innocent

The victims of tyrants

And oppressors

Who always seem to find their own way home

Their own way to blame the weak

For their undoing

Even the trampled greenery

Has a hoard of secrets

Buried beneath its every blade.

All egos can be bruised

If they exceed their tolerance

For self-recrimination.

I walk a lonely path

Without ever moving forward

But there is still progress

In the development of understanding.

Why do so many people live

In isolation

Holding out for something

Closer to deliverance

Than expectation.

I cast my dreams into a cauldron

The devil's own inferno

And watch as they dissolve

One into another.

The experience of recollection

Is as cathartic as reality

If it is met with an open heart

There is honesty in the approach

Of wisdom

It is out there

Somewhere in the wildwood

One day I might find my peace,

In a place of safety

When I can trust that my instinct to survive

Has my own best interest

At the forefront of its thinking.