Kneel.

Days…
like today:
I am too low to partake;
my mind’s in rapid decay,
the throb of a headache –

mistakes…
that I’ve made:
stupid things that I’ve said;
serenade a percussion parade,
through the confusion in my head –

evenings…
like this:
make my heart reminisce;
I didn’t know he was built like this,
the King in my castle has been dismissed –

regrets…
that I feel:
fester beneath this raw deal;
the question of what’s even real,
about the man in the boots at which I kneel.

Ancient Proverbs: 23 – The Irish.

“You’ve got to do your own growing no matter how tall your grandfather was.”

~ Irish Proverb

(Of course, I must give a shout out to my one and only “Irish Super Woman”, Tric!!!)

You wanna talk about “ancient wisdom”?…this proverb is enough to stop a clock with its truth. 😉

The Celts have been faring the elements of nature and humankind since the dawn of time, it seems. The Irish, especially, are a very wise and old bloodline in our species of human beings. The history of pre-Celtic Europe remains very controversial to date; but according to some scholars, the common root of the Celtic languages, a language known as Proto-Celtic, appeared sometime amidst the Bronze Age around 1200 BC. They mastered engineering feats that were leaps and bounds ahead of their’ times. The folklore belonging to the Irish is unmatched, in my opinion – I even gave my only child a Celtic name (that has deep meaning and symbolism).

Kneel.

Days…
like today:
I am too low to partake;
my mind’s in rapid decay,
the throb of a headache –

mistakes…
that I’ve made:
stupid things that I’ve said;
serenade a percussion parade,
through the confusion in my head –

evenings…
like this:
make my heart reminisce;
I didn’t know he was built like this,
the King in my castle has been dismissed –

regrets…
that I feel:
fester beneath this raw deal;
the question of what’s even real,
about the man in the boots at which I kneel.

Alloy-Plated.

A most precious cargo,
as simple as it may list,
alongside of faded signatures,
on scribbly packing slips;
ideas for abandoned projects,
hesitancy strewn between,
teetering almost maniacally,
strung up by unfinished things;
washed out again,
bleeding out,
in a lion’s den,
much too weakened,
to beg mercy of them;
the stars are tired,
the moon is pale,
the pathway ahead,
paves the road into Hell,
a lick for a kiss,
a pump of the fist,
a slug to my own,
alloy-plated breast,
it’s an uphill march,
it turns out,
I guess.