how many skies are there, after all
is there another mind
that is truly known
beyond your own?
there's no meeting more than one set of eyes in the mirror
one flame to one wick
group dynamic rejected
by dint of reality's foundation
one heart per body
it's not me and you
but myself and my shadow united
substantive entirety
from the right hand of the father
medieval splendor spans the sanctum's wall
under layers of plaster
in the memories if the Standing Numerous
beyond long graves gone:
merciful eyes
look down
upon the unsightly writhers
only until the last of a million chances
to not kill the unicorn is rejected
for the final passion plays out
as Easter everywhere
uninterrupted by anyone
every year on stages
as the story of crucifixion perpetrated
to a multitude of inactive witnesses
who never wagered on resurrection that day
and still to this one now
still disbelieve eternity
About the Creator
susan marie loehe
everything is Art, Art is Everything.
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Reaching Out
I promise her. I'd do anything for her. She's my mom. Even as Lanie and Deanna are flying home, Mom is scrappy fighting dying. She lays too still in that too-big bed with all the toasty white hospital blankets, in the south tower, at the broad end of a long slow-turning corner that delivers me again to her private room with the view she can't see through, with the beeping that tells us nothing new, and all these ice chips she can't swallow, and a flood of well-intentioned nurses who cannot do a damned thing all the same.
By Christy Munson6 days ago in Fiction
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