Beneath the Bellow

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Beneath the bellow

We hear the sounds before we see her arrive in radiant glory.                                                  Nothing rivals sound for she is what she performs.  The                                                      melodic chime and climb of a friend as well as a foe- who holds                                                the power to crush us- if she deemed it best.

Beneath the bellow

You ride.  I run alongside.  You sit properly poised.  I run in juxtaposition. I let nature run her jealously eager fingers through my ephemeral tresses.  An outsider has arisen from the underground.  Life gave it all to you, and yet she takes from me.

Beneath the bellow

Aspiration melts by the wayside and must be divided between buckets of sacrifice and sanctity.  Lay your bucket down. Tradeoffs are the payoffs.  And the conductor seems to blindly read braille, requiring a ticket of some kind.  I’m no holy roller, but here’s a holy punch.

Beneath the bellow

High above the celebratory billowing smoke of the                                                          locomotive’s   offering.  He above and we below. Below the                                                 Bellow, yet He has risen up higher than the offering of our                                            hands.  He is above the bellow, our       earthly bellow.  For the                                            groaning of our spirits rise in succession with the smoke of the                                                 stacks, the groan, the unintelligible utterings of a            conflicted                                           soul in pursuit of escape.  He has placed the yearning in the                                      firebox of the vessel- this vessel in harmony with your                                                   exhaling, transforming, suddenly appearing essence on the                                          page of history which for now remains but soon will rise as we                                           exit the station and fixate our hopes on an approaching                                                            destination.

Beneath the Bellow

All the frightened rabbits waiting

To interrupt lucid dreams

Caressed at night by hauntings

Unloose the seams

Running round, you made crop circles

Within the fleeing life

Pawing at the coffin for some answers

to the fear and flight

The landscape shaken out, like sheets

So desolate and vast

Lone tree rots from inside out

Mere façade of desert mast

Minions perform the dirty work

Unaware it’s never through and through

Vanity of a suppression

When your greatest fear

Is you.

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