Sick

A young girl sits, arms gently crossed with her face tilted upward showing bemused visage. Her fingertips move lightly across her pale skin, playing out a melody only she can hear.

Blind eyes turn toward the danger of her beauty. Overlooked are the ugly truths of the soul as pleasantries and entertainment are longed for.

Corrupt sickness rots her body outward from the core. Debilitating, crippling, confining. The screams released do nothing to quiet the flames so she catches her breath to quell the noise.

Death's hands fold and patiently wait as her mouth moves silently and her mind screams without sounding alarm. Her face a portrait of feigned indifference; strong beauty that gives no inclination to the putrid flesh that lies beneath.

At Liberty

For the first time in 8 years, I have found myself between jobs. In the market. Without a job. Jobless. Unemployed. And I think I like it.

"Make it your ambition to lead a quiet life, to mind your own business and to work with your hands, just as we told you, so that your daily life may win the respect of outsiders and so that you will not be dependent on anybody. 1 Thessalonians 4:11-12

Ah, and so the call for independence requires me to find a job and pay my own bills.