Photo by Shashank Hudkar on Unsplash

Clarity comes
And the walls reveal themselves –
tall, strong and immovable.
In the haze and fog,
Which is his daily walk,
Their existence is blurred;
They are forgotten
Though he was there when they were built,
and even added stones.
Now in clarity, he looks to bring them down –
stone by stone.
And so he works relentlessly, with pick and hammer
As his salty sweat stings his eyes and
His muscles and mind fatigue.
Yet his only yield from this Sisyphean task is
Bloodied palms and frustration,
While the stones remain, one upon the other.
Then slowly and imperceptibly,
(under cover of his exhausted heart and mind)
The fog seeps back again
And hides the stony barricade.

--

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Photo by Gaston Roulstone on Unsplash

There’s no such thing
As a flawless flower.
Only a beautiful flower
Unique in its bloom,
Expressing itself
In its own hue
And varied shape —
Part of a meadow mosaic.

The world is a meadow
And you, a flower —

Beautiful and Unique.

For my daughters.

© Scott Edgar, 2021

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Photo by Chris Liverani on Unsplash

With the sound of soft strides
He passes his days as a panther
In a Parisian garden -
Caged and subdued.
Ashamed of his god-given claws
And their potential
He pleads to God
Take these claw from me!
But God is silent
And he feels them still
He feels them every day:
Terrible and twitching and full of potential
So he paces his mind and soul-numbing circles.
Again and again and again:
He will answer his own prayer.

--

--

They are out there.
You know them by their void:
their masks of nothingness.
But they are something and voracious –
Consuming, in large amounts,

Everything

Completely

Their prey rage in vain
And then submit in silence:
No warning signals sent –
Even sound is consumed (and light)
In their dark bellies.

But they were beacons once
And they shined.

--

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Photo by Ricardo Gomez Angel on Unsplash

The ghost of a beating heart
Haunts me
Through censored visions of what has been
And a fiction of future days.
Her howls and hushed enticings call to me
Like the song of the siren.
So lash me to the mast:
To stop my ears is not enough.
She haunts me from inside and never leaves
She waits at the doors of my consciousness
And comes to me in my dreams
So lash me to the mast
The siren’s voice is mine.

Scott R. Edgar, 2022

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Photo by Marina Vitale on Unsplash

Truth circles at a distance
When the deceiver
dreams its dreams next to you
In the night
And fills your ears
With whispered words
to cloud your heart
In the day

She circles and is ready
Though invisible to your lowered eyes
And silent to your selective ears

Yet she waits; Truth always waits
She will not depart
(though the mountains do)

No; She is there
And waits for you to go to Her
She will not come
But She is steady and She waits.

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