creative writing, poetry, stoicism, Uncategorized, wildness, wisdom, writing

What the power steals


We rush to find candles

A burst of cognitive dissonance

Alka seltzer in a glass of cold water

How different we look

Without the illumination

Of rectangular magic mirror

Talking, and amused

By how our voices sound

Set within a frame of silence

We make old work from

New developments

Fires bloom like roses

Wood and gut instruments

Singing to keep ourselves young again.

Not a celebration of disaster

An act of adaptation

Without a single fatality.

What mars these moments

Is the celebration when the lights

Return, they steal something from us.



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