Shattered

Shattered
A Vagabond Collection Post

yesterday

before Me ~ the past me

i was clothed in blackness
in that Keller tomb, numbed in an Arctic chill
muted, voiceless, without an I to hold on to

riddled with bullets of juxtaposing conundrums
I faced the vampire’s mask of silence burying my cacophony
within the vault of secrets encircling my melancholy vice-grip

such a moonless place to hide, but what did the light
matter, when there was only absurdity
to illuminate, in the first place

irony is the life when Humpty did fall, shattered
and the rollercoaster in the haunted house hit the wall
that white walls then rose before me binding me

into an anorexic being
of what was to be, my life
now, before me

today

before me ~ the now me

i am sensing a desert planet birthing
itching to be freed of the labyrinth
in this slow flowering of my stunted matrix

an earthy softness shakes my core meditations
so sour that lingering aftertaste of the Leviathan
which published that accidental script, as it was, before me

that me, in that time, in that naive space
needs to be reckoned with, if i am to find
the i of the needle — my untainted, unrestrained, voice

souvenirs flash, in taunting flames, of that torrid conundrum
that past still finds me, or is it me, finding it
to atone it, so i can fathom the sea — to be, before me

tomorrow

before me ~ the future Me

I find small ponds of truth rippling
before and now and harkening glimpses of a horizon
of spirited wisdom, half-mourning in lilac and periwinkle

a future before me deigns to enter wrapped in bergamot
so I gently coax out the timid bairn for the baptism
with my still veiled ripened one

in the ohm of amethyst the indigo butterflies
loft on my fingertips so I can seed joy, a sowing
of belonging, a mark under the sun’s warm hellos

with unguarded gates I will be there when the wolf
howls my cotton wild and I will look into her eyes
with a vulnerable courage and dance barefoot in the snow

tomorrows, before me, I will listen to the chorus of my dream catchers
a poesie spirit knitting hemp fantasies and fewer demons
the breeze of the passionate to be with the birdsong, in my heart

and this is what motivates my Balboa tree to stay alive, especially at times,
yes, I know about despair, when the climate blackens my blue
before me, times when i feel i am drowning

~ namasté, Leah J. 🕊

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