Mentality shaky like an ancient mountain on a fault line slipping into the sea and the mountains don’t even speak to me anymore long neglectful of the dust that comprises their mass even when the shadows spill glorious on their umber cliff sides in low winter sun i am laid numb by the trisomy 13 and too premature and still-
births of strangers
sisters
to plead what’s in a life and only receive myopic success stories of those with the gift of purpose while God lies darker than dust beneath a dead spirit diffusing ten thousand eyes when out from the lodestone the bright ones and prophesying magnets come manifesting and happy to play the part
once upon an awakening dawn i saw myself as part of this fabric of humanity interwoven and in place we all celebrated lilac springs and rippled like moontide indigo waves but like my own tattered blanket i hide beneath like God there are rips and holes and filth and it’s not here to shelter but to conceal its hideous nakedness shame at its weakness at the seams and torn threads like viscera of its poor
why expect death to be any different than life’s sliding scale
round and round and round the prickly pear like a precarious prayer coming away only with a bloody hand i’m supposed to play but i fold
.
2018, Amaya Engleking
*Wish I could credit the artist of the above drawing but all I know is he/she suffered from schizophrenia in an asylum. (via Pinterest)
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