I walked through the valley of darkness.
How breathtakingly beautiful it was.
Gaze of birds watching over me,
I draw a veil molded in ocher clay.
I walked holding my breath.
Unseen, the ticking sound of unseen birds,
I walked through that valley of darkness,
Drawing yet another veil.
I do not pray.
At least not in this moment.
Though my body is feminine,
Inheriting the wild instincts of a seven-generation cat,
Before a swarm of cockroaches can infect me in an instant,
I sense it beforehand and let out a fierce roar.
"Meow!" "Hssss!"
Why, you ask?
The life of the slum
Always cries out,
Even within its depths,
Building its own cruel pyramid,
To attack me—
Someone they deem even less than themselves.
Elena wore a mourning veil of
lace,
To hide the smirk upon her
painted face.
Her husband, Julian,
vanished in the night,
Escaping debts and fading
from her sight.
She'd forged the letters,
framed a grand goodbye,
And told the town a cold and
clever lie.
Now Arthur, Julian's father,
held her hand,
The wealthiest landlord in the
valley's land.
He sought a partner for his
vast estate,
Within a month, the legal
scrolls were signed,
A pact of power, cunningly
entwined.
She held his arm, inheriting
the throne,
The grand estate was finally
her own.
But as she reached to claim
The iron key,
She saw a coldness in his
legacy.
Arthur smiled grimly,
opening the door,
To reveal the truth he'd held
in store.
He'd found the forgeries
she'd tried to hide,
And cast the deceitful bride
aside.
Every city possesses such a person.
You rarely notice them.
They occupy no headlines,
command no armies,
leave no monuments of marble.
Yet somehow the world remains intact
because they exist.
The woman who remembers birthdays
others have abandoned.
The janitor who speaks kindly
to midnight loneliness.
The baker rising before dawn
to prepare warmth for strangers.
The teacher who notices
the child vanishing into the margins.
Their deeds are lanterns
too modest for celebration.
Still, when darkness advances,
it is these quiet flames
that prevent the night from inheriting everything.
History prefers kings and catastrophes.
But civilization survives
upon the shoulders of those
who practice unnoticed mercy.
Inheriting
my shadow
Its legacy
dark
Willed into
my memory
Devoid
of a spark
No light
to define it
Or outline
inscribed
The emptiness
preying
Where ancestor’s
— cry
(Dreamsleep: December, 2025)
May we be blessed to smile at every child we see.
(Oh, how I wish everybody would)
because smiling at little children…
let’s them know the world they are inheriting is good.
And if we take the time to smile at ever child we see…
we’ll be doing our part in making that world
as good as we hope it will be.
In California today, 2025, city managers, attorneys, engineering
Work in an infrastructure of control without water fountains.
Micromanaged district supervision of States of legislature
Troughing below the poverty lines as entrance and exit serve the wills inheriting the labor of "housing" "something" without competing.
Prediction of 24 hours, 7 days, is enough hearing of you
Needn't be hear nor better with time in a second arrived
Lots full of practice and routine appearance
Essayists and poets marching
Into town halls to legislate
Creating labora frame
Georgia 5th had no time to talk
You're too far gone for me to step in.
I've given you my blood and precious time.
Society has given you dozens of chances.
Still, you drain the system dry.
You're a freight train off track.
Straight into the solar plexus of civilization.
You've managed to turn the iridescence of
love, loyalty, friendship
into the opaqueness of deception and decadence.
Here you are, a light-year beyond your prime.
Dark deceiver scrounging for dimes.
A bona fide bipedal parasite.
Angelic looks once gave you haven- free rides.
Now you've run out of bridges-shallow charisma exposed.
This haven is overgrown with thorn and briar.
The free ride is nothing but taillights in the mist.
You've inherited nothing but red eyes and dead ends.
We are inheriting Art and Arc
Of trying to understand.
How once, we were fingers,
Born of the same common hand.
Miniatures born into this land
Of thought.
Tactile each, and that ought,
To have been enough.
But,
In the sound of each brushed whisper
Overheard in the billowing clouds,
We fought the thought
Of the popular injunction.
Loud as a newborn’s cry,
Yet rough
As an unwanted memorry.
We are the ones
Still trying
To Understand.
And for my last will & testament to a life concluded at the hands of the cruel poison that is time, I solemnly swear that a life poised to mean nothing shall not only bear such barren nakedness but will also birth a new age of emptiness while inheriting all of seclusion.
While these last meaningless words shall only succeed in painting a blank portrait, I will only afterwards exceed my own expectations by finding what the true natural distinction between Fate & Destiny really is and-or shall become.
I shall henceforth concede my life the only way any average & mundane human can ever truly fathom in its totality, with a long innocuous sigh.
Such a fate we all share, yes, every single one.
Set in stone and sealed, awaiting Kingdom Come.
However you may enter, each differential circumstance, the difference made is none.
Hands of a ticking clock strike the hour, declaring that time Living here will have reached its end, and our final day be done.
Resting besides those unfortunate less fortunate souls.
Riches remain within rich pockets of inheriting soles, unlike others whose feet are bare and are cold, stand firm on the earth you now lay beneath.
Families of both either benefit or wealth, share puffy eyes and salty tears as they heavily weep, the same sadness and the same feelings of heart-aching grief.
Blood bled and bleeding red, layering cuts skin deep, choosing one's self-choices, and ranking bestowed upon by society, mean nothing once we sleep.
To Kingdom Come, shall our destination be ironclad, placing our final sitting seat.
Opposite living and separated by morality.
Yet each for a loved one is waiting to reunite with, and again cross paths they will meet.
pitch perfect
absolute hearing
shhhhh .....
let’s run
somewhere
anywhere
quietly
but where?
... it is absolute
our veins follow the architecture of the leaves inheriting its rythm
rhythm is consuming souls
overwrote by the ocean’s crescendo
our DNA is synchronized
Mother is firmly holding a conducting baton
The partiture where we can be undisguised
hasn’t been written
let’s write our own
turn the opera
into the cabaret
and give the puppeteers illusion of the power
Things that are passed on
family farm and it's land
inheriting pride
I live as a butterfly
Going about in my environment
Spreading happiness and infectious smiles
Where I can
And being uncaring about everything else;
The whims of the weather,
The potency of flowers,
The raging flow of river waters,
And even the songs of angelic muses!
Why, my carefreeness has a level which
Has never been reached before
I shall become a pupa
The day I shall be mystery
And my body shall be corpse
I shall then bask in the juices of this mystery
To become,
Once more,
A caterpillar
Bestowed with colors I will choose not
Inheriting the traits of a species that I will choose not
And programmed to live as the mystery will want me to
The cyclical flux of existence is beautiful
Just like a playlist that has been set on loop
But with the ending that never seems to come to a close
As new songs keep getting played,
Giving the impression that, like the universe,
The playlist keeps getting larger and larger still!
In this game of existential consciousness,
Why should I worry about the processes?
If I am a child of this subtle mystery
Should I not just blindly trust it
And keep my soul receptive
To what it would deem be best for me?
She is out of her mind her relatives said.
They wanted her embalmed, cremated or dead.
Lucinda had her wits and was not to be dissuaded.
She gave them all the boot, they were downgraded.
She had a dream, and intended to put it into action.
Wanted a gingerbread house to give satisfaction.
Builder and construction crew were happy to do it.
Relatives inheriting nothing had a huge hissy fit.
It's always the impoverished
that get it worse.
On occasions the wealthy
get it,
but the poor
can expect to get it worse.
Mother Nature
goes for the weakest buildings,
the driest wood,
the lowest,
most fragile among us
The meek often end up
precipitously dead.
Often, I ponder
about inheriting the Earth
I mean, is it worth it?
Often, I wonder if lightning bolts
especially single-out the meek.
I guess it's good to be special.
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