(Less is more) Blistered in the sand, the metal escapes within her face! Taken from the ground, lifted without consent! Has she misplaced her grin, her joyfulness released by hell’s hounds tilting down? Can we together lift her head high enough to glimpse the tree line, that frame of nature standing tall around her fallen and faceless people? Might we cut them down to erect more things; blade and teeth, gun and grenade and bombs, plunged from our backpacks of vigorous anger? She wants to know why metal tastes bitter... like love breaking inside of revulsion. She wants to know who she is, now that we've found her wanting, found her probing our reasons. We don’t have the answers she seeks, we never had them, they've been bleeding out, a flood of questions, tiny tempests whirling beneath our feet and above our heads. We forget suffering out of our seeking joy like a lost child found unsafe inside of us, she seeks a reason to smile and walk lightly around the original gr
(The Weaver's Song)