16 January 2018

Postcard 114

She holds me down and I am held. Yes she is real and true against the point to point of casual lies. Down here, deceit flows untroubled in wide avenues and smooth streets. Every word crosses our mouths is fraudulent seep. But she, high booted, silent upon my back, keeps me beneath. And in waters swirling muddy and deep, I cannot see, and what real is there gaping at me? Around they stand, pitiful. Their own selves in hand, eyes cold-filmed and phantom flamed: flimflam eyes, looking at and through, not in. Looking for the tell of fame, nothing but a throughway from reality. She holds me down and I am held down. I have no eyes can see her well defined lines, her beguile and steal. I can feel the fullness that is silent and real. Her well defined lines, her soft curve and sharp lies belie the wholeness, the fullness of truths unseen. She contains galaxies. On my back through shining boots she holds me down. A galaxy! and I am held.

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