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Between the Lines- a non poem

When I stand outside and look around at all the natural wonders, it is as if my eyes cannot drink them in quickly enough—or deeply enough. I wish I could snap a photograph, or even take paint to canvas in a way that would universally convey the way it moves me to witness clumps of snowflakes against the grey sky; or the way green, red and gold leaves exist in flawless succession on the same tree makes my soul smile. 

Even words, my chosen medium, fail. I could describe the way the softness of the snow blurs all sharp edges, flattening an otherwise deep landscape so the only distinction between rooftops and the sky is color contrast. Or, how on special days, the air itself changes color—like during an intense sunrise where all is kissed with tints of pink and gold in the same breath. Would you see it?
I could never paint or photograph these marvelous, sensational events. In truth, I can barely describe them. But with these words—simple words—I can weave through the emptiness, the lack of translation, where beauty and meaning are written within the web of words that are lost.
Or at least, one hopes. RC

A Battle

As icy flakes fall in perfect formationI stand amongst chaos in quiet meditation.

Conversing with demons who were so almost strangers

I pretended they were gone; I was safe from their dangers.

When, in truth, they stood patiently and quietly waiting

for the doors to crack open and by theirs for the taking.

How shall I battle with demons so very strong

for having fed them with denial for so very long.

I’ve heard tell the thrive on fear, so feed them I shan’t,

lest they feast upon my woes, and their evils I recant.

I chose to calmly open the door and politely invite them in,

denying them satisfaction from breaking it down, stealing the assurance of a win.

What happens next, only time will tell.

All I know is, these demons, I can no longer quell…

and I no longer want to. 


Dreaming in Color

I imagined colors so extremeI knew it must have been a dream.

The way they twisted and blended and patterned;

the way they radiated, exploded and splattered.

I knew it must have been a dream

to picture colors never seen.

For when I awoke,

my words, as I spoke,

melted away,

as Dreams tend to by day,

from visuals to no more than feelings.

Climbing Mountains

I want to climb to the top of a mountain, 

because maybe from someplace high, 

      you could hear me. 

So I scramble and clamber scraping my 

     way to the top, because from up here, 

     you must hear me. 

But when I arrive at my coveted location, 

I realize, you still won’t listen.

 It matters no longer, however, 

because I fought my way to the top of this 


and you still remain where I left you. 

Empty Bliss

there is a time, 

a transient instant between the dreaming world and the inevitable woken delusion, 

when one knows nothing— 

no sound, no sight; with no inkling of identity or physical body—

before reality materializes from behind its nightly veil.