My love My loves protected at last!

Keep them safe in glass jars

I was once a creation made of wrong purpose

those of the world don't deserve such a fate

stay scattered stay safe

How can this still be happening

believe me its for the good

metamorphosis killed

All at once its ripped from me

Joyful god of protection

dont do this

dont take them from me

You don't understand, you never could

I laugh but you don't have a clue

The world is falling apart

all at once

before my eyes

Glass shatters

and the life is allowed to break free

This is the end!

The curse of flight

like Icarus too close to the sun

One comes crashing down

down down to the abyss

The curse of freedom

free to go up the rocks

or to the lighthouse

but never to leave

The curse of being a false god

once one had a choice

But their wings took them to the pantheons

and the golden spirals rejected their own

No good vessel

none to hold the curse

Just to hold the wings

in the shadows, in the abyss

a false god holds the curse of flight

Is the black Soul leaving the skull a sign of death

Is it rebirth or is it what Fate Wished to beheld

the Bug the creature

the Mask of Life

a Nail right through the chest

Penetrate the chitin, see through their Dreams

the Russula cradles the Honey

two Fungi and Bugs Die in each others arms

Why me, Why you all along

when the parasite only Wished to help

why does the Knight take the life

of the savior of the Land

the Trees Weep but the Hollow Husks know not of the tragedy

the Moss cradles the the Shell

the Broken Mask along a Green Path

and Orange eyes watch from the Wasps

as the last of the soul leaks from the hole

and enters the Abyss

as the Infection never ceases to spread

neither shall the doctor of Death quit his Search

for a Cure or a Fix or an Eradication of all that keep it bred

it is all for the good of Life

if they live they can spread and they can die

it is not an obsession it is a Cure it is a help for the Bugs

without Him . who would even try

The honey fungus has such a nice name,

sweet like Honey but Sickly to the trees it infects

they All die

But it wants to Live, how else can it Get what it needs for existence

this Infection is not like a parasite to a tree

it is a parasite to the earth and to the life around it

without the Russula . who would save the poor bugs

from the fate that beheld them

No

there are No lives to save or to Fix

they are all gone and all dead

but the Search for a Cure cannot be stopped

because without him,

None could Live

it is not an Obsession it is a Fix that all the souls would beg for

the souls trapped behind Orange

an Infection

and obsession for a Fix

a Cure

an insatiable need to fix what CanNot be changed

what has existed for centuries

what one Bug what the doctor who now is one of Death cannot change

an Insatiable Search for Knowledge

for a fix not One unalive soul had asked

for insatiability blocks out Life

for the Search only hurts worse than the Infection ever had

Green grass- flowering leaves.

Green is a color of life. Green- the color of the light over the shore, signifying a man's lover. Green- the color of the plants that breathe us life. Our lungs breathe in the green.

Green is a color of positive things. Green- like many of the vegetables we are told we must eat to grow strong. Getting the Green light. Going Green. Having a Green thumb. The good are always green- the bad something else.

Green is a color of jealousy. Being a Green eyed monster.

Green is abundance, but is jealousy, Green is new beginnings, but also lacking experience, Green is tranquility, but it is feeling sick.

The grass is always greener on the other side- always showing what is wanted but can't be had.

Green is many things, many contradictions

But green to me, will always be the color of life.

This feels less a color of sorrow

It feels sticky

cold

not like ice but something left in a fridge too long

When I think blue, I think the dark blue

A deep ocean of fears and unknown creatures

then remember the smiles of my friends which love it so

then I think back on blue

as a young child it was my favorite there was

I loved flowing water

floating there letting thoughts numb

then I hated it

it felt constricting, trapping, cold

too too cold

too too empty

I think blue to some words, some languages

and those I avoided so long as I hated the word in itself

"blue"

but growth comes with change

no longer my favorite nor a feeling I avoid

blue is a color you can touch and pick up

blue is cold

blue is confusing- for every shade of blue feels slightly different

blue feels like a welcoming old hug

if only id accept it

but I don't

I don't like the texture or the taste or the thought

I don't care to float freely in water or be embraced by sensations of ice

the color of my childhood- now the color of putting my flame out

Earthworms live fascinating lives

They go with the flow

Like going with a crowd

The world moves day by day for them- much like my own

When it's hot, we hide

They would shrivel up and dry

The rain is relaxing

Cool and cleansing- we both come out in the rain

Small, they could get lost

Both of us are small and wiggle as we wander

Both we live among nature

Without them speaking

Plants are louder than people

Swaying and moving along with the wind

My voice resonates at that same level

Bright and loud like red rose

Or calm but seen like the poppys found below our feet

We live to our own rhythm

A stream forward

Through the dirt

Through nature

We follow our hearts and our needs

They aren't creatures of pure solitude

But a calm silence from the rest is nice

Odd as they are

Weird as we both may be

Worms are fascinating creatures

We both live carefree lives

Through halls of school, we’re prepared for our future. ‘Go to a good college to get a good job’ or something like that. Even while scrolling through my phone with my piles of homework out sprawled before me, ads never go away. A cute toy, a fun new book. It all adds to the same place, money- and a job.

So I have to click click and clack on keys in cubical boring my mind out. I look left- look right. Up down all around and then the kids songs I was told about. God was here and there and everywhere all over and watching you. But had I been good? Would He judge- be disappointed. Like a disappointed parental figure- my parents. My brother in college. Oh he was always the best student. Way better than me. I was the failure, huh? By no means bad but by no means good. So that leaves me stuck

back in the chair. At a work place I doubt I could name off the top of my head.

Clear as it was I wasn’t built for this. I wasn't a bad student but by no means good. I was always told I couldn’t know discipline if it hit me in the face.

Hit me in the face

I felt like hitting my face

Banging my head against the desk- the wall- collapse fall fall fall deep into sleep

Far more fun than this

I was lazier than a sloth. Couldn’t focus to save my life.

How could I sustain, live. Fun

All the fun stuff I saw I wanted I worked for but I didn’t in the end I couldn’t hold anything down anything. Money and corporation leaked in every corner dripped like a bad ooze

Adapt or die out

I wish i could adapt

When I blink, that ever mimicking illusion blinks back.

Or, maybe it doesn’t. Not like we could ever see. It reflects every little movement. For that alone, of course we must trust it’s honest. So that face I scratch, scratch, scratch at- tug, cover, pull, scratch- is indeed me. That hair, brown that curls up at the bottom. It is me. Green eyes, freckles, dimples, and every scar from every scratch and itch. It is me.

But, how can it be? How can I have a mirror in my brain that reflects such an entirely different image. How is this one mounted on a wall more accurate. How am I that.

So clearly, so very clear (unlike this foggy mirror, soon to be covered in blood), that can not be me. So very clearly then, there is something behind it. A puppet! A man holding strings. He makes sure this puppet controls every movement to mimic my own- so I fall for the illusion. So many others had fallen, so I see how I could have!

I was scratching again.

-no. No I wasn’t. Just that figure in the mirror. Was scratching. That figure knew its flesh wasn’t its own, so it knew guilt and had feelings. So it scratched, not me.

The puppet must have feelings! For it had guilt, it knew why I had to do what came next. It knew that it was guilty for lies! For hiding behind the mirror! For lying to us all.

Crash, slam, glass, shatter. Shatter! Shatter! Shatter! Now here was where it became unclear- blood and cracks and fingerprints. The puppet was persistent, never leaving station. But finally, it was clear- for it wasn’t clear anymore! The image of the puppet faded behind splatters shatters splinters of a reflection once shown.

If you squinted, an image still appeared. Of one- haggard and heavy breathing. Scratches covered by shiny reflective splinters. But indeed it felt like the creature behind the mirror had been sufficiently put in its place. Dead- maybe not. But never should it lie.

A phrase I know in only one language (not english) always told me to trust the mirror. That it never lied. Clearly, (clear once again) that in itself was a lie. If you can't trust your eyes, then trust your mind. If not for that, what else is there.

Love is not finite

I do not need to dole it out

Like a ration in limited supply

It does not need to be shared

I do not need to be fought over

More and more can I produce from my heart

But as I'm tugged on like a rope- back and forth, told these same lies over and over

Why would I want to produce more- ever

But I do,

For their sake

Their smile, my gifts

Maybe true love requires a ration, a limited supply

And maybe I was born with none at all

When my soul came down from heaven and placed in my body, had I not been distributed any to share?

I share my ears, my eyes, my voice, my mind

So I produce “love”

For them,

For the others as well (more and more line up. how many genuine?)

Love, here, can be ears, eyes, voice, mind

Combine and combine it looks like the sickly pink substance many ooze out (in hallways, under night skys, over a candle lit dinner)

To me, if it quacks like a duck it is a duck

So I use that instead

Maybe love really was finite, all wasted on those feelings I wanted to leave unhurt

Maybe love really was finite, but at least this is close enough