In the soft folds

In the Soft & Softer Folds

In the soft fold of the chin

of the bended head of a mother in love

is the start of a new awareness, dawns

which move and shake and bring alive

her character, soul, bind it

Not a reflection of self, but of mysticism,

divinity, fresh laughs and dreams,

the possibility of it within her, within

this frailty, this trust.

In the softer folds of the chin

of the bended head of a mother in love

is the finality of truth and loss, epochs

which crack open that dangerous dance, let it free

evidence in the glass

Image, precision and sting

do not speak, break apart from tombs.

now that strong, bent lap of faith

for each new day, belief only

in precedent and nothing else

captured

in the soft folds of the chin of

the bended head of a mother.

-          R. Parrish

Abyss

Abyss

Relinquishing any possibilities

of unanticipated joys

she let herself go.

The fall into that catatonic state was

not as slow as the passing years made it seem.

No, it was very swift,

though imperceptible to ogling eyes.

It came upon the heels of an epiphany that

life, not as she then knew it, but as she had dreamed it,

was over. Over before

it ever even began.

The world was, in fact, not waiting for her,

as her sister had once proudly promised.

She had lost. She had been shown the door.

And beyond that shadowy threshold was a great, dark and unwelcoming abyss.

Looking back over her shoulder, just once,

she then turned and stepped through it.

And the fall began. Bottomless.

And you can hear her sardonic laughter every

now and then when someone else passing over

expects a miracle.

She knows…

no one will ever mutter the words to her,

“Where have you been?”

They will instead whisper to each other,

“Where did she go?”