Of all the masters & all the slaves,
I find that mind fire burns in waves.
And sometimes the emotions derail
too quickly to lengthen the exhale.
Trees falling in the forest, unheard,
can still crush a nest of baby birds.
Turns out it's not the sound that matters,
but what the destruction leaves in tatters.
The phrase “Queen of Slaves” comes from a Percy Bysshe Shelley poem (Canto 4, No. 24)
flow on, Dark River; slip through the night. midnight's thick clouds block the moonlight. your voice drowned out by insect chirr. a Huck Finn raft drifts by at a blur: the rafters unseen; their secret stays hush... but for those red eyes in the underbrush.
I look in the middle; it's the same as the outside. White space - White space, and no place to hide. A peaceful patch of emptiness - I know this much is true: I could turn it any way I liked, and not change the view.
So many miles of coastline,
of rocky coves and outcrops.
Where none can see a straight line,
and water sloshes and slops.
Oh, might one miss a mermaid
hidden among the inlets,
so snug in stone palisade -
a lair of shells and torn nets?
If you say that you've seen one,
I'll not call you a faker.
I rather think it's great fun
to flirt with claims, wiseacre.
I'm swimming in the lake -
miles from one and all,
feeling peace and calm - when
the monster comes to call.
What could drag me under?
I'll never, ever know.
Some will always wonder
what caused the undertow.
The lake is surface calm,
and should be at its depths,
but in its muck lie bones
of those pulled under breath.
Some will swim tomorrow,
and in the days to come.
Most will come and go,
and just feel blissful numb.
Rome fell,
the Mongols & Ottomans, too.
Great powers fall
often sans much ado.
[Psst! someday yours will, too.]
They can't help but crumble;
the foundations get rot.
And there's too much weight
to bear, without spurring plots.
Plots and schemes and pandering,
all throughout the State.
Forget those Barbarians, the threat 's
inside the gates.
A turned field on a cloudy day. A clapboard shack, with threat of rain. Oh, it's so dark and gloomy - a rickety roost, not so roomy. Staring out the window, wondering: was that sound grumble or thundering? Grumble of stomach, thunder of sky? And I can't see out this bad eye.
Don't sell us benevolent kings, such creatures can't exist. An unchecked mind won't self-censor, and lame dogma persists.
Out into a winter night, with snow and silence and fright. What's beyond the torch's light? Rubber boots on crunching snow. Oh, how far we have to go. An hour's trudge until sun glow gathers on the horizon. Then walk 'til the day is done -- again abandoned by the sun. We'll set up camp in the dark, try to get flame from a spark, and dread when next we embark... a few hours down the line.
Just give me a simple brick hut with its doors tightly shut, and a cooling crossflow breeze, shaded by banyan trees. I won't be expelled by AI or sold the daily lies. We can talk live, not by "hit send" -- clueless to the world's end.
Tiger Riding for Beginners 