I’ve never gone.
I admit to being haunted
by sand drifts, foreign faces,
and familiarity’s tune, of never heard song.
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, along with an enriched life.
There are times, an antagonizing nuisance plagues my soul to shreds.
Even piqued my rudeness,
arming my artic tongue,
til they wished, they were dead.
In a very distinct futuristic, occurence of wars aftermath.
I’m believed to be the Angel of Death.
For visions show
mangled bodies, distorted faces,
and impending demise,
to the programmed one’s, 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.
riding in a blue pickup,
looking out the window,
the opposite way.
Hair as golden as the sun shining ,
as his heart beat ran scared in my chest,
beckoning with fearful blue eyes, toward the suspect driving,
that took his rest.
Waving out the back window
for assistance, of any passersby,
who saw the license plate, and a brief description or witnessed
the fear in his stinging eyes.
My present situation, I am Judgment, for my conscience weighs morale.
I observe the pros and cons,
for consistency, or from acute reasons to fail.
Decisions are a first nature,
like the blinking of an eye.
Only second is Deceit, and being punished for accrued lies.
My nickname is Karma,
a simple word to the wise.
Usually I’m stern, by the standards of justice, corruptively detailed, by lawful eyes.
Fair enough to weigh actions, upon an unbalanced scale,
but I could also appear at times heartless, as well as devastatingly
unfair as Hell.
By Tamara Moore
Thinker on the loose
Copyright (c) Reserved for purposes by or for Tamara Moore