CONFESSION ZERO

All of this waiting that stands between, swimming against belligerence, is the living spirit of that which came before. Before the birthday, the holiday, the week, when my kind knew the earth held secrets; valleys wielded something greater than consumption. The Great Grandmother takes my hand and walks me to me. She wrestles my ego, rage and hate and sightlessness from my stale grip and lifts my eyes to grasp where I am. I know nothing. Nothing of who I thought I was. Nothing of who I imagined I had become. But the waiting, the hesitation for no real cause, bares nothing fruitful, nothing green or living. Love’s missing from the skies. It's shriveled up, blooming no more its admiration, its goodness. All of this waiting like a mannequin in a storefront window, eyes wide hopeless, missing the call for tranquility, now ushers in a most hurried and depraved war as substitute. Peace cannot be defeated by the bloodiest of wars and only instructs to see that I haven’t the will to

(Photo from CBS News ) Missouri tornado deadliest in decades Deadliest tornado season in 50 years - but why? Frantic search in Joplin as more storms loom Dead was the rain. Dead was the wind. Dead. Dead was the forest. Dead was the stream. Dead. Dead was the soil. Dead was the mountain. Dead. Dead was the hound. Dead was the dream. Dead. Living I'd not have grown to want. Living. Living  I'd not have grown to greed. Living. Living  I'd not have grown to steal. Living. I'd not have grown to murder, rape and war. Living. Oh! This rage is too much! Not hers… mine! The sickle twists its frown down to face me. Must I extend my hands only to touch a lifeless screen? Must I line my path only in barbs of glass? My melancholy eyes drain indifference inside tears. My cheerless, screened in face glimmers without hope. My dead heart is in all of my charity and cannot weep enough, they’re the tornado standing ankle high to my lovelessness. Dead was the bloo