Grimm Wrongs

To deconstruct these tales, I must

call in the guild

of wise-women witches

to rein in the team of wizards.

I propose to dismantle

machinery that flattens

our focus, fans this desperate

need to be told.  We are poised

on the foundation

entranced by the architect

of a patriarchal castle,

wary of the woods

owned exclusively by the king.

The wild things seethe there.

Out of his control, they must

be wicked.  We’re engrossed

by the glossy pages waiting

for some specialist’s sterile

white-coated stethoscope

languaging lingular lobe

diagnoses in that wa-wa

voice.  There is no sense.

We clutch our symptoms,

victims in the dark

written into what we’ve

swallowed whole and 

sits undigested like

worry.  Sunrise is just 

expectation

someone will save us —

Jesus or a white knight,

a superhero.  It obviously

must be male.  

And we must pay.

We’re on our knees

or asses, beaten

to exhaustion, no space

to hear the inner calling.

Our own sacred voices

filtered out.

Admonished:  keep your eyes on the

skies.  Make a vision board

for the Big Dream.  Hypnotized

by the flimsy metaphor

that can’t tread water.

Test it, throw it into 

the deep end.  

There’s no saving

what becomes apparent.

Shall we give up

the waiting

to compose

new fairy tales?

simply

flowing

naked

fury

we

integrate

children

watch

now.

Inspired by Victim, Lingular, Guild,  Team and the flow of metaphors mixed up in today’s riptide outpouring. ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

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Victoria Stuart

I'm a poet, philosopher and inner seeker. A giver, lover and a healer who studies the heart.

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