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Wisdom of the Infinite

Not Someone's Grand Illusion

The Storm

Patch-Worked Trilogy

And Then It Wasn't Hard To Be Eight Years Old



Prairie Town Progress

Great Spirit

Elise, Elise

The Make-Up of Molecules

Make (of) Me A Snow Angel

Threading Myself Through The River Called Night

Dragons

HOW

EVENTUALLY...

THERE WILL BE MORE ...

At Night I Dream of Vampires Who Have No Bad Intentions

morning thoughts (begin again)

Human History is Pockmarked With Tragedy

Unseen, The Lilacs And The Daffodils

Nothing's Sadder Than A Rose

A Man Of The Clouds

The Cruel In The World (Blue Bag Metaphor)

Somtimes in Surrender

Encounter Before Dawn

Shedding Your Skin

Liminality

A Smattering Of Mattering (How Do You Matter)

NEEDING /KNEADING MORE (sometimes)

WHAT WILL YOU THINK GENTLE READER, AFTER YOU'VE FINISHED READING THIS?...We Are All Star Children

Not My Season

I Will Return

Like The Wind In The Middle Of The Night

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Better To Bend Than Be Broken (CHANGE)


So strange.
What I can always
rely upon
is
change.


Why should I bother?
Why, complain?
About anything as immovable,
predictably unpredictable
as change?


I take one big flop forward,
one bigger flop behind.
I'm not afraid.
I'm trying
not to feel the edge
of IT.
Remain composed in my mind.
Its
only the condition of the conditions of
change, unrefined.
Cursed change.


But, these days,
I feel like a beggar.
Like I've staked a corner
asking for spange. Pleading.
Asking for something better.
What I get is change.
Wicked change.


Whether its the wind direction,
whether its weather-foul,
change,
can be counted on,
insincere BUT reliable,
sometimes undesirable
as cheap pleather.
Blasted change.


Change.
If I don't bend with it
I may snap.
I'm finding it more difficult
to rejoin my separating halves.
Damn change,
full-tilt ahead.


Change.
Who could've conjured it?
Yet, I'm along for the ride.
Am I past the circle of tolerance?
Am I past the point where
my thinning skills can abide?


As long as there's life,
then salt and tears will flavor it.
One thing will remain the same:
Time.
And time will always sell
with it,
change.


Better to bend than be
broken
or rotting in the grave.

Death can be so permanent.
Why not chose then,
change.

Copyright July 21  2013 Directly to the page. All Rights Reserved By Author
Melissa A Howells  Meloo Tilt-a-World





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