Tiny_Tattoo Poetry (7)

No Beginning nor end.

In the image of my Father from whence I came,
The immeasurable vastness of my souls abyss you could not begin to fathom.

So far past the depths of sorrow, even the Angels weep for hope of a better tomorrow.

The light at the other end is an illusion behind me.


This is my Despair.

It plays out through the etchings of my soul as written words so un worthy to the emotion it expresses so beautifully.
My hand is merely the controlling vessel of its sweet release.
I can never write a poem so lovely as my soul speaks, I hold much gratitude that I am allowed to feel what it has to say.

Poetry writes me.

My heart aches as I awaken to find
that you are not there beside me
as you have always been.

Where are you my dear beloved friend?

Silver streams spring from my eyes
as the shards of my broken heart
cling to the strings of my soul,
Bleeding...drip, by drip, by drip.

Not letting go.

This ever eternal waking sorrow I feel
with each and every labored breath I take
seems to be the whole existence
of me.

Must I be left in this cold and darkened place
only to wake another day without you?

this is my Tendersorrow

Sweet release, and free flowing fillament.

Theres something to be said about a woman who stands in the middle of a river waiving a stick. She fishes.
The sound of the quiet gives way only to the life of the water you stand in. It beats to a rhythm of fancy and a free flowing soul.

With closed eyes, hear the ages of time as they surrender their stories with voice of a breeze through the knowledgeable trees.

It kisses the leaves with a wisdom of certainty.
Senses revealed and surrounded by scent of untainted life and oh how peaceful the collaboration it has for the need in me..........I can breathe...
Fisher of men I am woman, river, brook, stream, creek no matter...if you see me I need to find a new place to stand.
Memory had a story of may flies hatching soon..fish will be hungry and desperate to feed..Got my fly on, to and fro as I seek my mark it cuts the wind with fine precision. The thought crossed my mind once of how a fish must feel.

Seems a shame to trick a fish with promise of treat, but as I stand in the river for my health as it seems a fisher of the wo part of man here I stand and waiving a stick shakes up my appetite. Must remember that fish do not think so a meal if I catch they will be.

Time of times in the life of a river I stand and I smile.

The odds are stacked against one of us out here, they give hell of a fight sometimes...and sometimes they win. But then again, sometimes so do I.

Beware little trout ...from tippet's first touch, doomed is a fish hit on fly, that tickle you feel is the river saying goodbye.

The best of life's reflections I've found, here, standing in a river waiving a stick.

I always find peace, and dinner if this time I'm lucky.

Your Love is the symphony of my lonely hearts sorrow in repose, the unwitting precociousness of a child's innocence I see in the reflection of your eyes as the elucidation of my happiness dances deep within.

My heart flows with syncopation
as it beats to the dancing winds
of the ~Ruwach~ you hold.

A simplicity of rhythm,
that of familiar duplication
that does comfort my soul.


The Chief Musician inside of me sings to the melody of your Love.

My insignificance , you may judge the dust of my bones.

Standing there before me marked with the vivacity of one souls inception,
serendipity found them together in what
lies apathy of progress,
and prematureness of decay from the inside,
but the image is not unfamiliar unto me.
She speaks with forked tongue,
taunting with whispers,
beckoning with words of no sound.

Longing for silence I wait in the shadows,
the temptress holds open the door.
My mind brews with abruptness my will to make haste.
..away from that of Death and the Magician that brings an immense vastitude of waste

Lo!,.... I am not stuck in this reflection,
actuality can lead me and give me the option..................................to simply............. walk...... away.

If I only had the cognizance to know which one were me,
But lo...tis with woeful sorrow that my apathy does feed..... on her trickery.