ancient savage wisdom,

oft sought and offered pleasure

built up upon concrete,

devised in wandering hearts

opened to infinity, an ever deeper insight

into the darkened wasted soul

of those whose eyes are cast on flesh

redundant repetitions

regarding not their sources

not knowing that they fight against

a changeless, unmet need.

the sky is just above them

the earth is just below them

the trees are nothing more than

what they've always been.

unopened hearts disgruntled,

cleaving one to another

in desperate fleeting contact

and momentary pleasure

obsessed with naked bodies

and manufactured poisons

and lies sprawled out on paper

recited by beautiful voices.

running madly, angrily

hating That Which They Refuse To Acknowledge

killing one another

unwillingly killing each other

in the search for temporal power

giving up glory

in search of some small honor.

and I am one of them,

through certain circumstance;

although within me dwells the Truth,

which sought me from eternity

who brought me into eternity

who is and was and is to come,

to burn and take all suffering.

so now, no longer savage

though the body wars with God

and tries to throw itself into the fire

at every opportunity

just like everybody else's.

he'll listen to your trouble

act concerned as if he cares

he'll make the right expressions

and act like he's aware

she'll tell you that she understands

and how she can help you along

she'll make you deep convicted promises

explaining how your worries will be gone

they don't care about your future

they don't care about who you are

when you talk they their minds just wander

their souls are just a car

In August, I remember when the sky fell in on itself

hot as a molasses running between breast and hip,

there are some moments when I dreamed on fire,

when I burned for something greater than myself,

swept up on the coattails of youthful passion.

When I think I knew more than the world,

when I was young and dumb and possibilities "endless"...

But in September the sky opened up,

cool breeze dried up sticky heat between breast and hip,

and my dreams of fire are put out by the reality

that I never burned. Not even once in my tiny life,

and those coattails belonged to a viper who wished me harm,

and the world had always known what was next.

I am now old and not much wiser,

but at least I know that possibilities do not go on forever

they can also just... end.

I wish I could have told myself:

you'll marry someone born in September.

When it was August in college

and there was a three week stretch

of ninety plus degree days

before the new school year

and my pajamas were stained

with boys making mistakes

and sweat that kept coming

like the tears that tattooed my face

because it was endless, and the feelings

were permanent, a reminder of what had been

and what would become my illness.

I wish I could have told myself:

you'll be a writer.

In August

when I was presented

with addiction

someone forcing themselves

to be their own demon

and I had to be saved

by someone who later

decided not to survive

the mundane of the every day

or any day.

August smells like her

the perfume in her apartment

the summer she saved my life.

August smells like the rain

evaporating off the sidewalks

in New England

after a thunderstorm

the humidity too much

to contain any of us.

I don't tell people she saved me.

That in August, we went for drives

in my Prius

and sang songs that I still listen to

though sometimes they hurt.

That when I was faced with issues

at home,

she said I could stay with her.

That there are ways

to be free of those

who would hurt us.

She died in August of

the next calendar year,

and I remember calling my parents.

September came and it was

still stagnant with death.

But there's something

to the notion

of rebirth.

I knew her face

in all my ambitions, dreams,

the sun setting earlier

than it had before.

In September

it was okay to not be okay

and for that I thank her.

We've put ourselves out

there

at the far edge

where the light catches

the handle

of the blade

you're passing me

the Buffalo grass seed

can you smell that?

reminds me of way back

mowing down August, to September

it's that damn misty morning scent,

the yellow bus that takes us

09.27.2023

August/September challenge @Pagesfragensage

As to quote Taylor swift "August slipped away into a moment of time cause it was never mine" i do look at August as something that just doesn't belong to me, July is my birthday month and August being the next month its not mine its my sisters because its her birthday month! Silly reason? I know its because im a silly person! Now, some of my life's moments ive experienced in August just ends to show that everything in August is temperory its what you want but not what you get its everything you desire but its simply not yours to have. At the end of every August i've spent in the last 15 years i look back and relate even more to the song "August" by Taylor Swift. Now i look at my life in chapters just like how people like to look at their lifes in years "this year that, that year this etc" i like to think that with every year starting and ending its time for a new chapter to start and end with new storyline and villains. August is where my chapter ends. September for me is the starting of a new chapter its where you set your priorities right its where you decide what you wanna do next its the time where you move on from the past. Every september i find new goals to work on i find more people to obsess over. September starts with alot of new talking stages but also finally getting new group of friends to share your life story with. September is the month to get wise!

To look back at the previous chapter and take more mature and wiser decisions now. To conclude, August is the ending of the beginning i had the previous September and September is the beginning of new beginnings.

As I watch September nearing an end...

I think back to August and am unable to truly differentiate

For you see my friend

The temperature today is predicted to be a "cool" ninety-eight.

The crispness is not felt, but is heard in the air

it is provided by the crunching of grass beneath my feet

my lawn is to the point where I think it just does not care

I water and water until the green does meet

Talk of fall and pumpkin spice

does not interest me

Sweet tea with lots of ice

Good ol' Tex Mex is what I want to see

August and September

One month just blends in to the other 'round here

It seems to have been hot as long as I can remember

Thank God for AC - Amen, let out a cheer

I am used to the heat

and truly grateful for the winters we see

with no deep snow or cold icy mess, they just can't be beat

I am looking forward to the 70s and 80s of December and January......

I can't lie, if it happens to come in a rush, I won't mind....

August she loved me. In August, she carefully kissed the marks indented by careless mouths.

In September, she bites into the dents and tears away a part of me before she leaves just so I can watch the blood turn stale as it trails after her-- so I can forever remember the carnage.

It is unbearable, as I watch wide-eyed like a scared child clutching my teddy as someone's callousness infects me. I wait like a beaten dog, for her return.

But September is cold-- and I grow to be the same. Where tufts of hair were ripped away, is shrapnel flesh.

When the summer kissed my skin and I smelt of coconut and harsh perfume, nothing was sweeter.

In September, the air tastes like gunpowder and honey.

It's my shot I fire, when you come limping back under the autumn's chill twisting your joints.

It is my smile-- poisonous and vile. I hope it eats away at you.

Hope is the girl with a full set of jagged teeth covered in blood. Biting through the rotten flesh for the juicy centre; sweet and saccharine.

Hope holds the cloth out-- for you, not her, as she grins and wipes your tears.

Hope spits out pieces of bridle that kept her bidden, along with the clotting sickness that reminds you of what lines your chest.

You look down, and stare at the gaping hole someone had made with their torrent of hurt; poisonous and the killing kind.

Hope is the girl that holds your beating heart with human hands, and looks at it like it's precious. Because it is. With watery eyes, she looks at you. Like you're precious.

Hope is the girl that protects the most vulnerable part of you.

Hope floats across the universe and settles into the soul,

Whispering encouraging words when much else fails.

Hope begins, born in the depths of longing and need,

Stemming from belief that prevails.

Hope encourages, motivates, and lifts

It is able to move mountains - it is a divine gift.

Hope is heartening for the downcast,

An elemental force which exists to bring

A growing force of will to one's heart

Like the first blossoms in spring.

Hope sustains the weak, reinforces the tough,

Instilling a belief we can go forward

Even in times that are dismal and rough.

Hope resonates through thick and thin,

Whether it be the size of a boulder

Or the size of the tiniest pin.

Hope remains an integral part

In the depths of our heart

As we clutch it close

Hoping for what we want most.

Hope is essential, it must be in our midst

To keep us from faltering lest we cease to exist.

Hope is to live and persist.