by Theresa C. Gaynord
Breathing has become trifle, eccentric.
On this slab of marble there is something
akin to skin, something previously procured,
now motionless. In my theoretical knowledge
of this stage, there is electrical movement,
and I sleepwalk through nightly stars that
make their rounds with open eyes summoning
remembrances sympathetic to the violent
gesticulations derived from the five elements
to create space.
Unparalleled scenes glitter in an outward
show without speculation, pausing intermittingly
to honor every omission of nature, affirming
my place as observer, heroine from a galaxy
where every shade of resonance is open to
the moon winds of magnificence that complete
and rage over tragedy, taking what it can
for the moment, before coming back for the rest.
Leaves wither in an instant, and the eclipses, well,
I’ve seen a dozen plus in dioramic exhibition.
As darkness collapses surrounding me, I feel love
vibrating in sections, slowly integrating, fusing,
into one life. Meteor showers spray the heavens with
white light, in an attempt to accommodate this new
reality. I leap into a universe of flower essences
and balance, functioning on a greater degree
of synchronicity. I am the absolute between birth
and death outside the realm of mortal understanding,
redefined in the splendor and beauty of
© 2019 Theresa C. Gaynord
Theresa likes to
write about matters of self-inflection and
personal experiences. She likes to write about matters of an out-of
body, out-of-mind state, as well as subjects of an idyllic, pagan
nature and the occult. Theresa writes horror, as well as concrete
gritty and realistic dramas. Theresa is said to be witch and a poet.
(within the horror writing community).
Find more by Theresa C. Gaynord in the Author
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