The woman was restless, distracted
and fractured by obtuseness,
by banality, and surging self-winds.
The world seemed starkly limned
in sharpening unreality, in
symbolistic fear of fear. She
stretched her arm full-length,
and looked at her hand,
a stop-gape hand, to mind’s mentality.
Time had patience, perniciously
wafting its scent over her form.
She stood, transfixed, fastened
into place by passing fragments
of unactuality. With a gasp,
she pulled herself free, for the moment,
breathing harshly, moaning hopelessly,
lost in Time, aware, soon – she would die.

The weather was restless, ferocious
and deceiving. Promises unwept
dissolved her faith in mercy, with no
release into gusting freedom.
She wanted to shake her fist and curse
at sky’s wile, at clouds retreat.
She had lost another treasure of life,
couldn’t hold what was not there.
She wondered how she could outgrow
her darkening soul, her feelings
of displacement. And she wondered
if it really mattered, in the end.
Who would know, or remember,
if she had won her mental battles;
who would care? What’s gone is gone.
And, eventually, the earth will turn to dust
and continue its journey into the beyond.

Erin Elizabeth Kelly-Moen
© Copyright 7/21/04