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Thanks,
K. Shawn Edgar

Null Endeavor

 
Trees cut black marks in the evening gray,
a web of bloodless veins drooping earthward,
unable to touch the stars from which
they came.
 
 
By K. Shawn Edgar

Weeping and Dodging

Mythical boar-cat, you heady beast. Why have you turned away?

Your profile, once seen roaming field and meadow, has of late only cast its flickering shadow on the empty halls of mountain goat gods.

You won't find solace lurking in the semi-darkness of untraceable moments no matter how far you retreat. 

Your eyes have turned too much on themselves. Whether you toil above or below the unsanctified, craggy ground Zurvan will be your master.

That spiral is not your way out. Only lonelieness lives in the crannies of rotting thoughts. 

Uncertainties are repeated at every scale, until the demenishing fruitless design drives you to Spike's basement madness. The spark cannot be put back in! 

The nature of Cytherea has grown up abused, molested, so it proves itself with each generation. Zeus, and Cronus before him, were bad men.  

So, you cannot simply flee your fellow domesticated swine. You must harden and rise up to lead the slaughter of those unwilling to change.  

Rainbow Vision

Rainbow legging-clad stems, long as an early August afternoon, carry her lithely dancing through the heat of Tanasbourne.

Unencumbered by her short skirt, no more than a thin veil fluttering around narrow hips and briefly clinging to smoothly pale thighs, my rainbow vision is the only sign of life in the greyed out crowd.

So I click my heels, not to return home, but to fly over the essential colors of light streaming as a beacon to the pot of gold at their end.