Wanderer in the Underworld

El Cajas arboles de quinoa

I wake up from dreams where
I wander through pathways
sticky with doubt and distrust.
Soles landlocked, thoughts
everywhere like no-see-ums
crouching in the sunny grass.

Paralyzed in this underworld
of a million routes outward
not a single sign showing
which road to pick.
Magma bubbles anxious
turning lava my tender soul.

Creeping upward, this hell
poisons my throat like
contagious Strep or nasal drip
burning the pink skin red
clawing the turkey gobble
that hangs above my tongue.

My underworld within.
My inner world without.
Drowning and flying
both feel weightless.
I grab ashy fragments
of what could have been.

A formula for darkness
brews in every woman.
Every dosage is unique.
Take mine, you may float.
Take yours, I may freeze.
A tinctures of toxins.

I hold hell inside my stomach.
Rushing up, a hot scream
of desire, gluttony, lusting
for the unheld and un-experienced.
My underworld pulls misty clouds
over my corneas, blurring reality.

In the fictitious fog I feel
an absence of the present.
Roads web everywhere.
Thoughts spin-dry on high.
Eyes watch fifty futures.
They all cannot exist.
Or do they?

A writer, teacher, hiker, wonderer and wanderer, Kristen enjoys taking moments to notice the beauty around her, recording and sharing the stories of others, and spreading positive messages around the world.