In a world of names, so many, so plain,

I stand as Terrex, unique in my claim.

Terrex J Corbin, a name like no other,

Yet they call me T-rex, T, Terry, and others.

Each syllable a mystery, a spark of surprise,

I watch the wonder light up in their eyes.

To some, I'm Terrence, a name they can wield,

But Terrex is the name behind the shield.

A name unknown, unheard by the masses,

It’s a mark of the rare, as time passes.

A secret unveiled, in moments so brief,

Leaves them in awe, beyond belief.

Am I a mystery, like Mr. Code,

Or something more, a story untold?

In nicknames they call, in echoes they speak,

Yet Terrex J Corbin, remains unique.

Embrace the wonder, the names that they choose,

For in their words, a mystery brews.

But when the day ends, and the world is done,

Terrex J Corbin is who I’ve become.

I am intuitive and intelligent, able to see situations and speak with authority effortlessly;

but I am the first to deafeningly tell myself that I don’t belong in any room, imposter syndrome invariably louder than my own voice.

I am passionate and loyal, no one would question my love or intentions;

but I’ve never learned how to break the cycle of constantly breaking my own heart when I don’t know when to let go.

I am affable and affectionate, always willing to lend my advice or my support or my world-famous hugs;

but I am solidly in middle age and still haven’t mastered recognizing when I am being taken advantage of until it’s too late.

I am confident yet doubtful; I am unyielding yet breakable; I am tranquil yet anxious.

I am Human.

Death knows no obstacle, no boundary as love rises from the ashes like a phoenix, soaring to new horizons.

.........

Edith sat in the garden, the lightest of breezes casually blowing grey strands of hair about her face. Despite the cumbersome wheelchair, she looked much like an ethereal being as beams of sunlight reflected off her white, cotton gown and the gleaming chrome of the chair. Butterflies and birds flitted all around as she became the enchantment found in fairy tales, surrounded by a wistful array of nature.

Nearby, her daughter, Isabelle, pulled weeds sprouting amongst the rose bushes. Ever since the dreaded disease had robbed Edith of so many functions, Isabelle had come at least once a week to work in the garden, thereby allowing Edith a chance to enjoy what she had once treasured whilst also enjoying a change of scenery. The garden had been her pride and joy.

Edith watched as Isabelle wiped a gloved hand against her forehead, smiled, and waved, but Edith was unable to reciprocate the greeting in kind. If she could have wept, she would have done so, so great was her remorse. Instead, she wept in the deepest recesses of her heart. She knew Isabelle no longer wondered what remnants of cognizance lingered in her mother for Edith’s vacant expression never faltered in her debilitated state. Still, with all her being, Edith wished to scream, “I’m still here – buried inside.” She wondered if she was already dead for this life did not seem viable or worthwhile any longer.

Of a sudden, a beautiful butterfly landed atop the soft gown covering her lap, fluttering against the breeze in an attempt at stability. Despite the wind, the butterfly remained firmly situated, as if longing to say, “Hold on, Edith. New life awaits.” It was irony most divine but certainly not sublime. Death would be a welcome visitor now. If only.....

It began with a shadow, much like those created in dew laden mornings when the sun is striving to peek through the skies. It grew and took shape, forming against brightly strewn rays of light. The shadow moved closer, until at last, the image of a young, uniformed man emerged. How could this be? Surely, her meds had made her hallucinate for John, her husband of forty years, stood before her even though he’d been dead for nearly ten years. Oh, but he was just as handsome as he’d been on the day when they’d first met during the war. Edith’s heart nearly leapt from her chest at the sight. How she longed to stand and throw her arms around him in welcome, but her treacherous body couldn’t even suffer a smile.

She watched as John lifted a hand. The butterfly that had been firmly rooted on her lap only moments ago, took flight, to settle upon his outstretched hand. John gave a wink and a smile as he whispered inaudible words to the butterfly. In seeming response, the butterfly flapped its delicate wings, lifted, and took flight. Edith watched as it disappeared among the roses in the garden where her daughter continued working. Watching it, Edith was strangely reminded of a phoenix, soaring in its flight, moving on to new and better horizons.

Turning back to Edith, John stretched out his hand and smiled. It was a beautiful, welcoming smile that reached and filled the core of Edith’s being. “It is time, my sweet. 'Tis not death we greet, but life.” The soft words he spoke resonated, sparking a fire of knowledge from the warmth embodied therein. Inside, Edith felt a sense of intimacy and rejuvenation. Joy encompassed her soul.

………

The butterfly flitted nonstop about the rose bushes where Isabelle was working. It seemed insistent, as though she must stop and take notice. She took a step backwards, not wishing to clash with it for it was much too delicate and beautiful on its mid-morning flight. In fascination, Isabelle watched the butterfly for a moment before she turned and took a step toward her mother, intending to move the wheelchair from the fast-approaching sun's glare. Instead, she was brought to an abrupt stop. Her mother’s once stiff body now gave an appearance of softness and youth, of mobility and flight, despite the grip of the chair that held it. Still, the thing that most gave Isabelle pause was the smile that graced her mother’s face. Edith appeared incandescently youthful in the peace that filled the garden. A newfound enlightenment struck, and Isabelle felt the truth of the moment seep into her bones. Though her mother was gone, with one glorious smile, she had broken free of the chains that once bound her. Edith was free.

..........

**In honor of all who suffer through Huntington's, as well as those who succumbed to their battle.**

...........

"You would know the secret of death. But how shall you find it unless you seek it in the heart of life? The owl whose night-bound eyes are blind unto the day cannot unveil the mystery of light. If you would indeed behold the spirit of death, open your heart wide unto the body of life." Kahlil Gibran

A sadness in her eyes

Holds truth.

Don't question it, no disguise.

The way her smile slides,

Like a pair of boots.

You could see it in her eyes.

A faded tear holds lies.

She don't give a hoot.

Her misery is no disguise.

She smiles, but tries

Not to seem too loose.

The mystery lingers in her eyes.

The time for pain flies.

No end or truce.

She didn't need a disguise.

Instead she cries.

Ended all that she went through.

The sadness left her eyes.

Happiness was now her disguise.

Little grips the blood, with fear, like idled hands.

What slips across the face, iced as shadows...

Gloved, with most benign of custom, and demands

the Governess, sweeping wayward curl, that lands

...Frozen for a moment, upon arched brows...

Little grips the blood with fear, like idled hands.

Devil may care, for these hot and shifting sands

that course, and burn, human fingers and toes;

Failing to hold firm The Count's countless demands.

Oh juggler, you, of minuets and grandstands!

When all applause ends, and our rest follows...

"Little," grips the blood with fear, like idled hands.

Don't speak of Evil, or a bird in the hands!

Empty of work, or wistful candle blows...

of Figurative... or Literal... demands.

Just a tot, inside, taking part, between bands.

Inadequacy, behind the glass, shows:

Little grips the blood with fear... like idled hands

...as Grand Father tolls, Mother's fatal demands.

05.29.2024

Villanelle Challenge @CKMunsell

I tether you, dear, with a pleasure so near

so deeply within it can’t be ignored

a treasure that weathers all that I fear

I never buy treasure with anything mere

and bury my hope with passions restored

I tether you, dear, with a pleasure so near

I measure my pleasure in how I adhere

to a life that I live while hoping to hoard

a treasure that weathers all that I fear

but whether that treasure for me is right here

there’s much that I find that I cannot afford

I tether you, dear, with a pleasure so near

my pleasure is feathered by what I revere

and haunted by all I haven’t explored

a treasure that weathers all that I fear

in my leisure I treasure your every tear

and wonder, my love, if you’re my reward

I tether you, dear, with a pleasure so near

a treasure that weathers all that I fear

Sadness was silly when I was twenty-three

Masked with a drink whenever it bothered me

When my head hits the pillow, it won’t leave me be

Curious what keeps it alive inside me

A lifetime of firewater banished from my diet

Thoughts I generate are deafening yet quiet

Some may notice and engage with defiance

A mere spark to the blaze of my self reliance

Day-in and night-out is the only time I dream

To escape the nothingness of my homemade esteem

T’was self-induced as I retrace the seam

Dreams are for suckers mister Martin Luther King

Three fort-years plus two, is the level I’m on

No cheat codes, or power-ups except for my Dawn

Thinking aloud that identity is needed

To conquer the beast whom the devil preceded

My mind is a television that goes back to this show

Like  a car wreck, a rubbernecker will never truly know

Wipe the tears, chin up and let no one else know

The weaker use this for their selfish ammo

Without earning the title, everyone seems to  judge

My productivity met with a smug-filled grudge

Know this now, I will never ever budge

From the path I’ve chosen so continue to judge

The smoke has all cleared and the mirror’s been broken

The bullshit discarded from what has been spoken

With steps taken toward Him, I feel more awoken

I now overlook fake-friends who’ve  misspoken

Friendships lost and ties have been frayed

By the judgment and ridicule I sensed every day

Now strangers, not family like back in the day

I pray this new path won’t end in dismay

I’m now wide-awake, crafting my thoughts into text

Forever hoping one day He will grant me His best

Full-speed ahead on my unending quest

I pray that the outcome turns out better than my mess

I know not the purpose of this rather long story

Should be filed away in it’s own category

Forever in search of the true morning glory

But to the naked eye, everything’s hunky dory

We made a pact,

You and I,

We'd always see eye to eye.

Until the day you looked up high

And used me as a stepping stone to reach for the sky.

silence speaks so loud.

nobody to talk

but

droplets of rain

oozing down

the gutters.

I'm at the window

while my tea cup

and

muddy puddles

share the same mood.

tea does taste much better

though

a soul isn't in sight.

being alone,

I love it the best.

~vinnie_writes

Nobody listened to when false charges were placed on record:

A lost little shepherd.

Didn't care when one wanted to end this existence:

Only through the power of resistance one persisted.

Wasn't about the truth when it mattered, Heart was shattered

So, listened to music/wrote/cared for self-drowning everything out. Alone.