ODIN
God is good with only one eye.
***** * *****
Sanctuary
We all claim to guard that secret… but it turns out it’s the secret that guards us.
***** * *****
Unrequited Love
I offered only my self.
I did not offer to be a circus act, an accessory to a fantasy about meeting the expectations and judgments of others.
I offered only my self.
I loved you.
You tried through surreptitious means to manipulate me into becoming that which suited you, yet I offered only my self and my love for you.
It was not enough. It would never have been enough.
For you did not love me, but only the fantasy.
Nevertheless, you had so much more to offer me than I did you…
How could I not love you?
***** * *****
The Serpent and the Dove
The dove perches on the wire, between the barbs. Does it understand its precarious position?
The barbs were meant for trespassers climbing to break in or prisoners trying to escape.
The dove doesn’t care about the treasures within the one place any more than the horrors within the other.
The dove carries its treasure with it everywhere it goes by virtue of remaining uncaged.
Which might make us wonder whether the treasure-seekers were not already prisoners before they climbed the fence.
***** * *****
One-Eyed Wisdom
A poetic rendering of reality makes it bearable.
We should always seek to discern truth
But not necessarily to act on what we find.
***** * *****
Inscrutable
Things are not always
As they seem, friend, now are they
Always as they seem?
***** * *****
About the Creator
C. Rommial Butler
C. Rommial Butler is a writer, musician and philosopher from Indianapolis, IN. His works can be found online through multiple streaming services and booksellers.
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More stories from C. Rommial Butler and writers in Poets and other communities.
The Surreal Stream
Somewhere I read that the angles are perpendicular to the commiseration of distinct viewpoints on a map of the universe that jammed itself between the teeth of a giant seashell. . . or hell, HELL, maybe it bit into a volcano full of bubble gum and ate the sum of its own parts with licorice kisses on scaly flesh in the midnight hour of tower power so sour for whatever reason, how should we me know sirma’an on the mountain of fountain pens and cascading glens with no retreat from the beat of the crackalacka repeat bazooka joe chewing gum in the trash heap of binge drinking sink blinking random order out of meager benefits and sacred fits on the throwing mat of love in E minor with no concept of how long it took to get right here in the where the hell am I now, gibberish, slotted through monkey brain eating holes where the hammers still hang in GOD knows what void of Anglican discontent, wherever veils are rent.
By C. Rommial Butlerabout a month ago in Poets
The Hour Long Minute
I’m finally off of work from my overnight shift and now comes the hard part. I do Ride-share driving for about two or three hours after I get off of work each morning, not only to make ends meet, but to put away a little extra money for my rapidly approaching wedding.
By Earl W. Pearl3 days ago in Fiction
Comments (1)
I enjoyed all of these so much. My favourite was Unrequited Love.