Rightly wronged grin at my foe
My crushed petals without whoa
Distinction between things unsaid
Tantamount to space between read
Words on pages and lines of song
By events are days made long
Without hell to pay the toll
Find in what I see my soul
Back from beatings to work again
On the seasons and the days when
Created things are by no straight line
By no square and by no fine
Etching by the hand of man
Though he may imitate when he can
The careful course of nature's way
So he may take comfort in his stay
On the sphere which he has robbed
Of song and light and made to sob
Those whose doings he has laid bare
And whose cries of remorse fill the air
About the Creator
Shane Eide
Shane Eide is an author of fiction, essays, aphorisms and poetry. He edits and writes at emergenthermit.com as well as The Burning Block, an ezine.
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Reaching Out
I promise her. I'd do anything for her. She's my mom. Even as Lanie and Deanna are flying home, Mom is scrappy fighting dying. She lays too still in that too-big bed with all the toasty white hospital blankets, in the south tower, at the broad end of a long slow-turning corner that delivers me again to her private room with the view she can't see through, with the beeping that tells us nothing new, and all these ice chips she can't swallow, and a flood of well-intentioned nurses who cannot do a damned thing all the same.
By Christy Munson3 days ago in Fiction
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