Fred Aiken Writing

the sun rises, casting shadows on the distant horizon, floating upwards, boundless, treacherous, violent,
standing at the edge, tangled in a mess of hair loped off and drifting through the wind,
with a heart torn, between ancestral teachings and the fast fact-based pace of the modern world, shooting stars, blood-shot eyes, and wondrous memories

my spirit searches,through an open wound, the quagmire, gaping open, what was once a flesh wound has become infected,
this land that I was born into, among, from, both familiar and unknown to me,
sipping organic, fair trade tea from a ceramic mug at the precipice
while contemplating the meandering pockmarks of momentary insanity
blithely blissfully obliterating all the known qualities of quarks in motion

a journey adjourned and simplified, I look over my shoulder
and ask the non-important questions drifting off the tongue