CONFESSION ZERO

The wind. The wind. The rising wind is upon me. The noise does battle her countenance as if she were a whore for our foul consumption! Stop! For the love of Home, stop! Let us instead begin to paint upon her most wondrous skin a prayer for our duty! Ruin, our sorrow built from the fullness of fear, can be breathed into the fullness of Love. I say let’s change the balance from one of fear to one of Love. Let’s do away with our sorrowful beliefs that bring fear of what awaits, instead of getting down to the business of now! Now and now and now… eartH awaits our observance… © 2012 the spirit of Love dancing through Mark Richard Prime

(September is Hunger Month, what’s your emergency?) When hunger strikes it is not as swift, it is not as jaw droppingly horrific or nearly as visual or pragmatic as when terror comes. (Hello? This is Terror, what’s your emergency?) Terror comes as a thundering blast, piercing the rust of contentment, disintegrating steely assurance, hunger slithers in. (Silence…) News of terror strikes fear and panic, seduces our pounding, frantic wits with darkness, dust and death devouring whatever’s left. (Silence…) Hunger pays no attention to time or place running our courage over our eyes with the private ghastliness of its teeth veiled in bravery’s demise. (Silence…) We’d recognize hunger in a crowded airport. Know it if we accidentally bumped into it and turn away from its ugly and careworn face. Terror’s not made that way. It arrives with a most thunderous shot, penetrating the crust of our indulgence, obliterating our steely assurance while hunger slithers in. (Silence…)

(911, what's your emergency?) For this flight is there enough food to nourish the dark and horrid famine? Plenty water to ease across the razor’s barren edge? Sufficient breath to coax this; a collusion deep within? Is there ample shelter from this; a deceitful tomb? (911, what's your emergency?) Truth. Is there none? (Truth?) Who needs the truth? Lies are more valuable, made to easily pass through the takeoff's devising eyes. It’s the clever packing of truth and lies into a single carry-on that is the trick. (Lies?) Yes! It won’t turn the plane’s shadow into flame. (Flame?) Yes! It won’t cut the neck of slipshod freedom. (Freedom?) Yes! It won’t bring massive terror to the shores. (Terror? Freedom? Flame?) Yes! Lies! Lies; packed together as one, more easily sound round, edging near enough to truth. (Click...) Copyright © 2006 mrp / thepoetryman (911, what's your emergency?) Traffic! (I hear ya! So are you trying to get off the inte

(911, what's your emergency?) The sun had its sky, the sky had its blue, the blue had its clouds, all held to an ensuing loss. (Sir, you dialed 911, what's your emergency?) The world had its nectar to offer; stunning mountain ranges, plentiful fields of grain, sustaining waters… (That's lovely, sir, but how can I help you? Do you have an emergency?) The sky did then forsake them on this day; widowed of a pristine love bathing them in joy, the weight of it unhappily tumbled down, congregating with one another, mourning… (This line is for emergency calls only, sir.) The sun had its sky, the sky had its blue, the blue had its clouds, all gripped in looming collapse. (I can connect you with the chamber of commerce?) After the shock of death’s swift alliance with anger they held their heads high and marched onward, all the while in grief’s search they strode past denial and posed the earth's hovering question; Why did the sky abandon our trust? “I’ve never

(911, what's your emergency?) What is it that the wail of our voice has given us in the stamp of days lurching forward on the damp streets, eyes upon our feet, omitting the faces reflected in this glass grown in our hands and thickened skies over the oceans clot of war’s nectar, man’s squander, while mountains give way to unconscious machines, voices, wooden with a thick green-love? (911, what's your emergency?) What is it that the wail of our voice has given us that the march of a grassless plain or an iceless crest cannot sign, we gauge their descent like a killer, set to be forgiven sins we’ll soon commit, as pointed fingers wag at the surging breach leaning its majesty over the dampened sun. © 2010 by mark prime (911, what's your emergency?) Love! (Click...) © 2012 the spirit of Love dancing through Mark Richard Prime

(911, what's your emergency?) Love! (Though I would tend to agree, sir, this is 911 and we're not equiped to bring you love, sir. Is there anything else I can help you with today?) What’s come of this, our day? Feels like a pale remembrance as if we’ve not slept since or our eyes never fully opened, living near death, over and over, never realizing what we’ve done. (What have you done, sir?) The dead walk by our closed doors just as they did before. Maybe years from now someone will open them and see there’s no one there, open the cupboards and gaze at the ghost’s of a bare boned affection that move about in the living dust, in the echoes of our dancing within the last of our days, even if there’s nothing worth remembering or somehow it all got misplaced, perhaps tucked away for a rainy day, a keepsake for tomorrow that never came… or never was. (Oh. Yes. I see.) Walk with heads held high. Honor all the love that’s been taken away by your own hand and all those y