Yesteryears have left strange thoughts behind.
In this central bowl of knowledge I spoon through leaflets and pamphlets
trying to let it all digest
in a manner which I can understand.
Yet the past isn't opening up to me.
Nature's not being what I need it to be.
So tell me Emerson, Whitman
let your century old breath whisper to me
what's next?
I've kept my sabbath all by myself and I'm still only where I started
calling out to a God I fear can'r hear me.
I've read your essays and your speeches
I've peeked into your personla lives and what I found
were just leaves, just grass
(a smell I unknowingly despise).
Your will was stronger than my own
your democracy stands enumerated through time,
when will you allow this light to shine on me?

Beggars can't be choosers
but choosers can be losers
can I can't go back to Confucius
because he was meant to confuse us...

Eve's furies are shadow-cast over my every bend, turn, and twist
How do you justify this?
I've looked into the past
and in every reincarnation I've been slaughtered and underminded,
I've been used to wage wars and slaughtered to make peace.
Tell me where I stand.
Tell me where I stand amongst God's and peasants-
adorments of either diamonds or coal

I've been searching for the answer but
age-ed leaflet's haven't spoken yet,
will they whisper for you?

Deidre-Ann Fuller