I admit to being haunted by sand drifts, foreign faces, and a familiarity’s feel, too tunes of never heard songs.
In one of my lives, I was believed to be, Henry the VIII’s wife, but I’ve learned, how to keep my head since then, along with my enriched life.
There are times, an antagonizing nuisance plagues my soul to shreds. Even piqued my rudeness, arming my artic tongue, til they wish, they were dead.In a very distant past, of wars aftermath. I am believed to have been the Angel of Death.
For visions showed me mangled bodies, distorted faces, and impending demise, for the programmed one’s, that were left.
Whether hours after, or a year later, its always the same,
like watching an action packed movie unfold, on a 3D panoramic screen.
I’m always so close, and yet so far away. I can see and feel their fear. Hear the last gasp of breath escape, strangled by seaweed, at the edge, of a rickety pier.
At one time, it blew my mind, to be a young boy about 8. In overalls, riding in a blue pickup, looking out the window, the opposite way. Hair as gold as the sunshine , as my heart beat ran scared in my chest, beckoning with fearful blue eyes, toward the suspect driving, that took my rest.
Waving out the back window, for the assistance, of any passersby,
who saw the license plate, a brief description, or witnessed, the fear in my stinging eyes.
Now my present situation, I am Judgment, for my conscience weighs morale.
I observe the pros and cons, of consistency, or the acute reasons to fail.
Decisions are of a first nature, like the blinking of an eye.
Only second is Deception, and being punished for the accruement of lies.
My nickname is Karma, a simple word to the wise.
Usually I’m stern, by the standards of justice, detailed too the tee by lawful eyes.
Fair enough, too weigh actions, upon a balanced scale.
I could also appear at times heartless, and devastatingly, unfair as Hell.
Poetry By Tamara Moore
Thinker on the loose
Copyright 2015 (c) Reserved for purposes by or for Tamara Moore