Notorious. A green grassy postcard from the scene: of grass grown over the screech and stain of their ripping field of fingernails clawing her children to bits; the silent mothers screams echo in a small running stream along the path of footprints stomping vine and vale leaving no option but to turn away, long before anyone realized her closed heart and eyes to their disapproving sighs, weaving into the dark, to a new land—uncaring. Her broken record plays the same boring old song a little different each night before you turn in to your snug, over-sung head; each colored ear needs to hear the same story in its own hue of light—in order to be read. One image—they’d said, perfect one image throughout this lifetime and gain entrance through opal gates with love along side and so: despite the apparent hell made on earth, her fire light beats on in plumes and crackles like drums contained within glass—encasement. Iced-fire safely contained for the icy fingertips of the ones—burned, branded for life by her ever reforming words and chains, bonds, which stretch—not to enslave, but rather collect into her desireable constellation. Connect the dots and paint by number—your image is yours—from your perspective—there is a better way, if you can let go of anger and stop comparing the proximal measure of the sun and her relatively small burning rays—to the tiny, pointless stars which appear, burning softer from their great distances across the dark expanses. Your sun is your sun, so let it be written, let it be known without the tempt in fuel for your own fame by tearing of fiery hearts out of the surrounding troops of galactic fire-light dancers in training; Prima ballerina‘s and their side-kicks spinning, inverting, the eyes of the watchers lining the hilled and grassy, natural amphitheatres below. }}church{{
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