A Solitary Reaper Retold

I toil in the meadow
a solitary figure
in that lane
I walk miles
not fearing the wild bear
which comes from that other side of bridge
what it is looking for I wouldn't know
that bear is as lonely as I am
I may seem fragile and unstable
but I have enough insight to survive
I will rest on a rock for a while
before I retreat to my island of peace
that bend you see is what I am seeking
in no time I will fly away like fallen bird
he knows his place is the sky

"the clouds will touch my feet in no time
persuading me to go with them"

hubris

Stanley Kubrick for Look Magazine, 1949 

complex edge takes me away from the beaten tracks
we have become still pictures in this forest of feelings
my lie has grown so pale
answers are not needed now
you will throw the files
I will light that gas with this lighter
burning all the invisible mess

"still I need a class or two to unlearn you
but in the vintage mode"

escaping from banality

The Promenade, 1918, by Marc Chagall 

don't you dare giggle
she is not flying
it is just a crazy illusion
her chattering teeth shatters the silence
I will scoop some moonshine
that will wake her up
she escaped from her home
a cave of a home
such a banal life
she thinks she cut all ties
just a wrinkle you see here
all will be normal
I will do anything to make her stay

"she will make banana splits
that will be our meal for supper"

universe will not hand it over to you

you need to escape from your solitude

let your shimmering emotions spill into the curb

let your steps direct you towards the yard

watch the thundering jets

the spewing hatred within yourself

needs to be dashed to the ground

let the rain wash it away

changing your status and stature

you can go and rest on that park bench

watch that door being knocked

you have to grab your due from the universe

no one else will be there for you 

"the patterns are not you yet you are the pattern
goodbye is so final but the universe decides for you"

dance of life

Waking, Walking, Singing, in the Next Dimension? 1979 by Morris Graves 

each one of us swirl with the wind-
limbs move with nimble grace.
in the train of thoughts;
no myth can exist in the prairie-
you see a vault
but for us it is a space that never ends.
your throat may choke with emotional rapture of our beauteous dance,
we may crave for a trick 
that will takes us to halls of fame.

"in the spirals of life, these is no beginning, nor is there an end"