Modern Lips

This one came about when I decided to read a¬†women’s magazines. There was indeed an advertisement for lipstick or lipgloss stating: Modern Lips. So what are modern lips? Are there old fashioned lips as well? Have mine expired? Do I need to keep up with the Jones’? Plum, moisture, pucker?

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I bear witness

I bear witness
to your suffering
to your pain
to your invisibility

The shame is with the perpetrator
It is not yours to carry
The disgrace is with the perpetrator
It is not yours to hold on to
The violation is with the perpetrator
It is not yours to keep

I bear witness
to your suffering
I bear witness
to your pain

You are no longer unseen.
Your dignity is just.
Your worth unquestionable.
Your place uncontested.

I see your light
I see your strength
I see your survival
I see your healing
You are the strength of your bones
You are the permanence of your heart
You are the power of your soul
You are the sanity of your mind

You are not alone
Never alone

*For Ada*

7 a.m. and no Gargoyles

A thick haze slowly eats the city; drowning it in milky pudding.
There is a bright spot; I must assume the sun.
Grey silhouettes slowly emerge from the haze.
Anonymous giants, only known to those close by.

Don’t fight windmills; you won’t win.
I up the resistance running up a grass covered hill.
I run into battle or follow my prey, hunting.
Archaic DNA scripts fall into place, always fight never flight.

I can’t see the horizon; even though I am high up in the building on the hill.
What I thought a gargoyle, turned into a crow watching the morning crowd through glass walls.
‘No gargoyles in the mist’, I think feeling sad.
‘Here I go again on my own’, Whitesnakes shout in my ears.

The giants ahead are probably just houses.
There is no magic, as the guy next to me huffs loudly.
I up the resistance a bit more.
Let it go girl, just let it go! I know well how to ‘fight for’, not so well how to ‘let go off’. But I’m learning.

The milky pudding spits out the giants; I can’t see beanstalks either.
Annoyed I make my way downstairs.
There is hardly anything more real than cold steel across my shoulders.
I want to raise my hands above my head and call thunder and lightning.

But the steel will do; there is magic in the strength of my bones.
Suddenly sun-rays burst into the room.

‘The book of love is long and boring
No one can lift the damn thing’.
But I am becoming stronger.

Shadow Dance

Are we done now, with the shadow dance?
Are you going back to the puppet master?
He will know you have danced.
And you won’t bear the strings any longer.

The shadow was save until now.
But the night-watch just passed the alley.
His torchlight revealed a gun.
He is not pleased.

Are we done now, with the shadow dance?
The master of puppets and the night-watch are waiting.
Pinocchio has to become a real boy,
to survive the baptism by fire.

Take my hand.
I am waiting.

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