White Mud
by Odin Roark

One’s conscience
knows little discretion
while escaping oppressive ideologies,
the flawed,
confused,
fear-driven,
spirit-driven,
and omnipresent blood-thirsty
visceral drives.

Some…

Awaken
as oozing-threat
creates awareness.

Others…

Like Wile E. Coyote,
need hardened concrete
rendered to the head,
even if only
to see cartoon birds
and scrambled musical notes.

A few…

Recognize air’s disturbance,
the moisture from incoming clouds of doubt.

Space threatened by
the gathering energy,
boding well for the seeing,
hearing,
feeling,
perceive beyond the obvious.

But for those avoiding expectation,
ebbs and tides of patience
emerge like the sea,
while the winged lion
roaring, swirling through life’s mist,
echoing its imagination,
enjoins the indubitable past,
shaping an omnipresent now.

Such are the celebrated futures
rising from fractal-history.

For the few…

Having finally persevered,
man’s sublimeness awakens,
forging the many shapes,
forms,
colors and words
surrounding destiny’s chance of a rainbow,
creativity embracing Yin and Yang,
space-time’s perpetual offering.

For others…

Compassion sadly accepts the out-patients of emptiness,
those who deny they make their own reality.

Left…

Are those hearts and minds absent color,
realizing not the scintillating,
effervescent,
tincture-rich life,
that is there
for creating,
even as tomorrow
will bring further ups and downs,
flows and drought.

For far too many…

The plight
of victimization
wallows in white mud.