The Worst Sort

Bad laws are the worst sort of tyranny.~Edmund Burke

It’s 66, the grass a brilliant green,
the mulch freshly applied, house-showing clean.
These lists gripping to-do intensity.
Flood warning mirrors sheer immensity

inside out. I ground in the dark vastness
before dawn. Morning practice steadfastness.
Remember to breathe. Seething in fervent
need: fresh air, big sky, lake-side observant.

The years of sickness forged humility.
Honoring my vessel, tranquility
essential. Every boundary ingrained
through chaos, snark, dissonance’s disdain.

Each change invisible. I look the same.
Healing under the surface, no acclaim.
Now I stand strong watching the world aflame
as tyrants ravage health, a cruel game.

Inspired by: Fervent, Vessel, Gripping, Forge and the OctPoWriMo Day 7 theme Balance/Sweet Spot.

Written for every person I know who has received a jab and is now experiencing a totally coincidental health decline.

Featured photo: A great egret flashed white in the murky morning.

Published by

Victoria Stuart

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

6 thoughts on “The Worst Sort”

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