The dust of the standards that used to hold this body

There was always something here that talked and kept talking, that warmed its way around.

It used to make me believe

It used to make me believe that people were always supposed to evolve into something particular, something sound.

I wonder about that, now.

I wonder about whether the standards that used to apply to what a body turned into have weathered away, and whether the expectations have woven themselves a new frame?

I wonder how many other people feel the same way I do?

When the motions of time and the strength it takes to hold a body together find themselves twisted.

There have been times when I have been afraid I would break, or bend, or be useless.

I convinced myself over time that all I needed was a will strong enough.

Determination would fix everything.

I now think it is a matter of perspective.  That those who have had to dig and restrain for the energy for life find themselves in a different place, in a different manner altogether, from those for whom life molded easily.

I think it is a matter of shape, circumstance, and beginnings.  And they are different for everyone.  Although for some, it is more tumultuous than others.


Trusting the Dark

Trusting the dark

Running into frames of uncertainty

Turning through the rapid motions of someplace I never thought I would be

What is the synonym of description?

When I have run through the gates, certain I knew my calling, only to find myself astonished by the lessons left.

There was a place I did not know, though I thought I had already been there.

The parameters were set in my head, I thought I knew the expectations.

What does one do when the form changes again?  The form of how I walked through the mist, feeling the vapors mix themselves with my nerves, tantalizing the air through and around me.  I had thought it would make better sense by now.  I had born myself into the experience of being reformed, internally and externally.  I knew it extended even more so and took shape in the air around.

At the time, I thought I had a glimpse of what the form would come to be.  I thought I knew what to expect in time to come, not in direct vision, but in certainty of fearlessness and what the past had shown about the future.  I guess I thought the past was going to indicate the future, or at least bring hope.  I thought the past was a direct correlation for what the future would look like, in pain being used in purpose and wrong deeds illuminating freedom for others as it had for me.

Now I am in a tide that seems to stand still in time, but requires the energy of anticipating the moves I will need to stay in it.  Even while it is not moving.  It feels as though it may stay stationary for a time that I can’t predict, and I have to have the strength to churn it until it moves in a way that makes sense again.  And the tide does not feel like the vapor had.  It is a different season, or at least feels that way.

I am not sure whether the vapor changed, or my perception of it.  Or at least the way that I walked with it in me and through me.  It seemed like it would only solidify further and make better sense, but how it has felt has changed, and I’m not sure why.

Lisa Wick


Lisa Wick is from Southern California, where she currently resides and works. She loves writing poetry, and is working on a novel.  Lisa’s poetry has not before been published.

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