Clues to the Mystery of What Really Happened
​

And is happening.

White, innocent hands
“No, not innocent,”
They say, she agrees.
Unknown, knowing hands--
​Prickly, smooth
Daring, tired, evoked, paralyzed hands.
She made things
By the grace of the gods
With those hands.

She was loyal to certain things but knew too much.
She couldn’t do anything but die
Without help.
She was stuck in a reality
That she oft wanted to sleep through
Even though the pace
And awe was exciting to her.

They say she thinks too fast--
Too cooly,
And is good at thinking really, really slow.
Lightning speeds, raven smart
And slug speeds,
Choppy and eluded she was
About the make of it.

She often whispered,
“Tell me no more,”
Yet it hurt when she “shushed.”
It wasn’t the only dreadful sound
Or fake memory
To rattle her mind.
​
Sudden-reality stings
Like a tear-jerking
Nightmere,
No post-traumatic stress
Of it
Can be handled by the masses,
It has to be a slow boil
Or a slow dip
Into a cool whip cream pie
Like lemon-meringue,
I hope for the latter.