chillbaby5000
Bio
chillbaby5000 was diagnosed in her late 30's with PTSD & Autism and is finishing a poetic account of healing trauma, depression, & rage.
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Stories (11)
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The Smell of Quit
I go to this place to see the barn owl at noon. I bring a little bowl, some seed, and a spoon. A drop of warm milk as it sweetens the womb. Deep, heavy breaths. I slow as I reach her nest, take back the empty chalice left, and replace my bowl of divine respect as she nods to her sleeping brood. I feel invited, an apprentice, too. I feel chosen, but know kindness glues one to another. Let me in, I let you. Maiden, Mated, Mother. She's alone. I am too. No matter now. It's all color, different paints that we choose. A portrait of the other is only us - shades of rouge. I see her. She sees through. If I allow, I do too. All around reflects you. I am her owl. She has my food. Both in return are richer shades in hue. She purred once to bid adieu. See you tomorrow, my little muse. Whether you or I feathers first and flies, I saw new colors in your eyes. I see why they say you're wise. The coalition we've devised - though by no one recognized - as counterparts by candlelight is by no means new. It's a common catalyst for truth to spirits asking or confused, or to simply be amused. Human, Nature, Creature, Fae - as if at birth were separated - aggregate and find their way no matter what mankind can do. It's magic lying there in waiting, often felt when times are changing, sometimes found just by escaping, as in Cinderella's shoe. The ending of the whole charade leaves behind the biggest clue. You dreamt and spent, now wait, and know the wake returns to you. From far away, sounds from the gun, after you see it, then it comes and perches till every setting sun. A midday snack for bird and young. Here, more than one awakens one on the path of clover I wade through. Luck, she gathered us in two as a temporary truce while Chaos' hands are loose. Strong and warm, the barn and storm. A tree fell and a sound was born. The straw was torn, a bough adorned, a temple when I found no more. In silence now. Relaxed as her in tone and brow. Black as her tomb, she goes in and out. We sway. Still room. Mornings wear me out. Too much sun and I racoon. Too much hunt and she recoups. Beauty burned and left her soot, added water, painted her suit. I softly stroked her. She leaned into it. With too much will, she'll snap and I blew it. Her lessons run for me like fluid. But it's time to rest, not arouse her nest, so I blessed her as the Druids would and kept her safe in dark and wood. The barn withstood. Droppings underfoot. I gave her shield because that's all I could. Alone we heal if you're down to do it. Her down was soot. While I smolder through it, she wears her gown like gold shines through it. My goal. My idol. Someday, I intuit, for me as well, Midnight will come - a peaceful well for me to draw from, where's there's freedom from the sun and Darkness blankets everyone. Do not run when shadows run. Howling's heard, doors closed or open. Weather slows her throat when cows the field, stalks have to yield, broken halves revealed, and new rains have coat them. The smell of Quit has a sweet to it, binaural beats rooted, hands red in beets, drip, drip, grown deep in earth and excrement, exposed and beat, your tongue and wit are finally raw enough to note them. I closed the barn, left the window open. I went inside, found a sofa to soak in. Near twilight, listening to Chopin, through the curtain, I saw - wings open, sooted and sweet, sweeping and golden - my knighted spirit return to closure as she flew over. Over and over...
By chillbaby50004 years ago in Poets
