Reflexia.

It burst into flames on a summer night as the girl went on as if everything was alright. A car on a field with gasoline on every inch erases evidence and memories of anything that was to exist. She sits in her room in a castle in a sky, looks at her mirror and begins to ask why.

“Mirror, mirror on the wall, who’s forsaken me most of all?”

“You, my dear,” the mirror smiles, “believe in fate and your honor will thrive.”

Shaken, forsaken, the little girl cries. She stares out her window and watches flames take the fire from her eyes. Burning from the inside, the little girl dies.

She lives in flesh, dies in wounds. Gave herself confidence in the world she doesn’t know.

I am the mirror, the reflection of you, ask me a question and it will deflect you.

She turned on herself on that summers eve, someone grabbed her wrist and pulled up her sleeve. She was lost in youth, lacked creativity but not self-doubt, dug herself a grave so deep not even a ladder could get her out.

The measure of faith shallowed by lack of love, for herself the mirror gave an answer enough.

King's Tithe.

The lion is king, the earth is tithe. There’s a problem with poetry, nothing but rhymes. He has a mane full of gold, chasing birds that are in the silver lining of the clouds.

The lion chases, he pounces on fear. King of the land, the earth is his maiden. Fueling his strength, claiming his years, undoubtedly the center of suicides each year. Stuck on the ground, there is prey. Crawling and hiding, praying for hope of life, but flesh is weak and the prey, meek. No chance for life, although hope remains, because the earth has sacrificed itself for the world of the lion’s mane.

There are pretty little birds, they can still fly away. Blinded, backdoors, using wings to proclaim youthful flight. Those who can fly, fly away, shaking the fear of the king’s powerful pride.

Without the tithe, without demise, art vanishes into less than light.
Earth to eh, death is my life.

Smocks.

We’re sick and we mock, we play with the smocks that we wore during our younger art phase. Creativity and no doubts, throw paint at its mouth, as if to make words colorful like they uniquely can be. Innocent, so true. Naïve, confused.

Such sweet sadness when love is lost of a creative mind with the thoughts of changing the world and climbing mountaintops.

What happens when the world shapes the mind, like the swirls on that chair, clouded out by a sponge with white paint? Covering the yellow base, masking hazardous optimism, emphasizing the green and the pink, envy and misfortune, youth like innocence and a child-like personality. You are mauled by the bear of the mind, the bear of the world, the bricks from the sky.

They fall on your shoulders, shaping your height, destroying your posture, initiating fright. Capability crafted with a smock tied at waist, creativity capable of painting earthquakes. They rock and they tear leaving the world in despair because the fault type strike-slipping and destroying.

See the clarity?
It is not there.

Because the darkness of past defines the present layer.

There was a child in a smock, painting a chair. Colorful and bright, unaware of truth, of the meanings of colors and what the world had to share. You made a coat rack, I made a chair, sponged with swirls, the color of your hair. I won a prize, but was sadly dissatisfied, comparison became the thief of joy.

We’re sick.
We mock.

Done playing with smocks.
That innocence, untrue.
Naïve, abused.