Untitled No. 2

She stands, tiny and frail, on the
grassy hill overlooking the precipice;
TWICE removed from danger.

Twisted ropes of rain-soaked hair,
clinging to the slip
clinging to the body.
The shedding of dead skin
is made impossible by persistent moisture.

Squelching, burping mud oozes between
pink toes; caked to
calves,
knees,
thighs,
a lacy hem.
The proof of her journey
clings to her, desperate
to see the end of her world.

Nipples and pubic hair naked to the
WORLD; innocence
made vulgar by Nature,
mother of us all, the
ultimate manipulator. We
are all forced to give away our most precious gifts.

She stands, tiny and frail, on the
grassy hill overlooking the precipice;
SECOND to last stop.

From sky to body, body to earth, earth to
Oblivion;
the path taken by infinite drops of
rain: “follow me.”

“Follow me, follow me, follow me,”
they scream; she hears
them and tries not
to LISTEN. The difference is
vital.

No one has ever been so tempted by insanity, as
when they feel the earth's
mucousy discharge
slowly swallowing them whole;
flight is always desired by those
earth-bound and gagged.

She stands, tiny and frail, on the
grassy hill overlooking the precipice;
TWO and three-quarter yards from
self destruction.

Red-rimmed,
starry blue eyes,
stitched to white skin with black lashes;
truly, she is living the American Coma.

The slurping, strangled cry of
Mother Nature losing ground;
the prisoner of war, unfit
for survival,
ESCAPING.
She follows the rain.

Tired of being the voyeur,
never the bride, she
pursues her own ecstasy.
Over the edge, out of the mud, falling through
the freedom of the endless unknown.

Tiny and frail, she follows the rain.