Sometimes I write: #2

I: Mist

Swirls in chaste cirrus, clothing fabric in saturation

Permeates as you've been told so often; hides us

Translucent and opaque, air at war

Drowning in thinly veiled despondence

II: Air

Too sweet, unbearable in its crisp flat form

Chokes

A rush to the head when none is in need

I wonder whether Space would be more agreeable, recycled air cannot attack with ancient scents or forgotten pasts

III: Frost

Slender creations, hand made amour: beauty

Swirls in icy breath and flakes of melted design

Unfortunate that this elegance is mirrored in me, archaic and splintered

Ruin and rage inside like

IV: Flame

I am drowning in the cold-hot of it all

Condemned by my memory to spurn attentions

Imprisoned by invisible chains

My resistance is not my own

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Sometimes I write: #1

Often I think

“Am I so easily replaced?”

And then I remember;

I have been the one who 

Replaced myself all along

A fool who tried to

Make herself in a god’s image

No water-walking or locusts but

Goldens, satins, rouges

Marble and alabaster, flesh made stone

Was I made in the froth, the remains of a body destroyed?

No. I am no idol, no amorous creature

Though I long to be

Not even an owl am I

Not even a hint of long-wearing stone

That will one day be revered as beauty

I am not the oldest of them all;

Again I respond,

“You know you are crumbling, irrevocably,

To be replaced as such things are - choose

Grace.”

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