pathways and journeyman women and lovers come along, stay by their sides they are stoic, they are calmers, they wear quiet forms of armour, protected by the ones they love, their swords, their shields are made more potent, because fighting evil and chasms and voids can be dark work all done in a night and days, without a form of talk.
Focus not upon the irreverent, the naysayers, the belligerents, and instead become entranced with beauty, melody and love, there is power within, if you see the beauty of a dove released from closed hands, with the most delicate of ease, lovingly, lovingly, lives attended, we, the couple will dream, and now with our army of light and love, we will make new pathways, shining a light upon the cause.
there is nothing, Nothing, that can’t be stated for the truth, I am there for this moment, I am here for the proof, and I will become enchanted with the whistles, the chirps among the trees. O’ hark, a galah, oh hark, a kookaburra, and hark, a morning magpie, and her lover, and baby together.
The bent head of a dying rose that’s really just sleeping, prune her not, her scent so forbidden, only those worthy will sense her but never she censor her true remaining thoughts. She has already done so by ivy wrapped around her base, the shrapnel hidden tightly around her waist, the armour tickling her jaw-defined face. And a prince will lean in and breathe in the scent of her, never forgotten, never to forget, that moment when these two had met.
Turn this snow globe upside down, shake it left to right, around and ‘round, watch the glitter settle, upon a now-glistening figure, upon her nose a mere flicker, a perfectly pretty picture.
Way back when, things were simpler, her angst wasn’t as present, no sense of preoccupation,
when she could slide into her bed, or curl up on a hill, and voraciously devour the life story of another, of their words she’d have her fill.
How she ached at their poignant moments, suffered along with their harrowing experiences, and looked up to those brave enough, to detail the troubles and horrors of their lives, whether self-inflicted or because of another’s devices; strife is considered strife.
So, she learned their tales, their pains, their sorrows and took on their experiences, wondering how some of them walked away unscathed, but in truth, she knew, that like her, they too likely still carried hidden scars of suffering, the snow globe’s shining glitter isn’t always as it seems.
Lauren M. Hancock Poetry and Prose 
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