You are the conductor to my orchestra of pain,

Each note, each sound, created just for me.

It’s catchy, it’s deafening, it gets all caught up in my head

Until I couldn’t possibly hear anything else.

Even if I wanted to.

Slowly insidious lyrics start to creep in,

Telling me what everyone thinks of me,

And what I think of myself.

Telling me what I should do about it,

And that even if I don’t listen now,

There’s always the next stanza for that.

Tortured bows screeching across strings taken from my heart,

Pitiful cries echoing in the emptiness of my chest,

Sometimes squeezing out from my paralysed throat.

There’s no hope here, no way to hush the musicians,

Not while the conductor drives them on.

And what match am I for him?

Listen to the words they sing, I’m no match at all.

Timeless music robs me of time itself,

There is no past, no future, only the aching present.

It doesn’t matter that the last verse ended,

Because this one never will.

You let the music build to a crescendo, then drop your arms,

Slowly drifting to silence, but the song plays on and on.

And no-one hears it but me.

Came in like a lamb -

this month number three,

sunshine and mildness

encouraging glee.

Though Spring 'round the corner

finds snow at the thaw;

this folklore might cause some

conclusions to draw.

Some fond little voices

(the adage-ing kind)

say that's only half

of this "weather remind".

(if) "In like a lion"

brings "out like a lamb"

then current mild weather

flips month end to jamb

a roaring out-going

to balance today.

Things could get exciting.

What do you say?

Until this morning, I thought 'vilify' had two ll's.

Which started me pondering...how important is correct spelling when it comes to writing?

I've seen a meme come across my FB feed once or twice where some of the vowels/consonants are replaced with other letters. The picture, if you can read and understand it, makes the point that our brains can identify words correctly (and thus be able to communicate adequately) even when some of the letters are different than the standard dictionary spelling.

--Does it bother YOU when you see misspelled words in things you read?

--Is correct spelling only important in some contexts and not others?

--Do you try to improve your spelling abilities?

--How does it make you feel when someone corrects your writing (hopefully charitably)?

These letters that we mix around

to fashion words which foster sound?

Well-ordered need or merely close?

Which leads to understanding most?

Do you get miffed when (more or less)

mistakes abound? Does grammar stress

arrive, until you feel compelled

to correct those who have misspelled?

Your thoughts I'll not treat spurious.

Please share below. I'm curious.

Aloud and full commanding came the plea

to right the wrongs which passing days allowed,

and any who would not attend the crowd

deemed obstinate, with fervent pitch decree.

To change would serve ill omen, to the free.

To stay the same must never be allowed!

So rough and deep division lines get plowed

(obscuring path of compromise to see).

What then will come if one or other crowned

as victor? Methods meant to halt the kill?

Will heaven look with favor on the deed?

Or might, despite some best attempts to drown

out sorrow’s pool (of which we’ve had our fill)

the curse continue, while the blameless bleed?

Rarely raging

Happily heard

Youngish-yet aging

Merely demurred

Insolence idled

Sympathy spared

Targeted, titled

Selflessly shared

Timely days

to mark away the

fears and jeers of

all we fail to be.

Instead to see

renewal strong,

with purpose

long-supposed

to glory Him

who calls.

Decreeing

falls forgotten;

freedom follows.

Path lays joined;

living what was

made to be at

Eden's dawn.

No pawn, but

child of God.

Prod of conscience,

pricked desire

for greater than

what earth lays bare.

Dare, in dying,

yet to live;

give away your

gifts as they were

given...

free...

to be...

brightest by

the light of

Morning Star.

See the tentacles, a web of silver silk spreading

Knitting a corn field to reeds and seaweeds

Tall, haggard, and dead cornstalks compete

With tall grass reptiles for the same alluvium

That takes hundreds of years to yield substance

But lo, the earth turns at midnight tonight

The hubbub, a signal to indicate the arrival

Of the hundredth billion mark since onset of stars

There’ll be groans as those silver silks are severed

Groans as the hour forces fossils in fusion

Groans rising from a cavalcade already half-dead

Long frilled pantalettes and leghorn hats

Chasing broomsticks into a midnight gloom

The dark without ever a bloom of light

This is the plight of our stars, a tilt to trounce

The illusion of the past, the future, and the now

All will arrive at midnight torn, but there’s no fear

Tomorrow will fold within the waves of space

And all will arrive at midnight in peace or pieces