The Children of Gaël Dante’s Mind

She is afraid of her own body.

Her mind is not in charge at all times.

The indoctrinated orchestra drops its instruments

And lets the body subdue itself out of fear and self-protection.


Her mind is clear, her heart in tune,

It’s the muscles in her belly that scream danger and harden,

Become stone, become rigorous, let everything brush off,

Composure, and misguide her toward old lessons, moss and rotten wood.


The cemetery is not my destiny,

I’m fire and spiritual air and tremendous winds, incarnate,

She thinks as she walks, as she breathes and falls into earthly depressions,

Rustling under a blanket too heavy, her body tearing up, uncorked.


It’s her; she can’t stand it; it’s too much, she needs to rattle the vessels.

I scream against the walls of your skins, I shuffle and shuffle,

Sharpen my voice and resistance. Don’t incarcerate me further.

If you let me out, I’ll combat our victimhood, I’ll take us back to heroic plains.


You evoke old harrowing voices, dusty intentions, vanished,

You scratch the devils on all walls, and let them infiltrate your throat,

Unleash your eyelashes, blow into your eyes with fire and musk,

Sing to you of failures and disintegrated choices, mortality, you, the rocks that


Stand in your way, the stiff air blocking the cavities of your chest,

The never-ending holler from the corner of the room,

But you must think and reignite the ground that holds you, never lets

You fall like ephemeral apples spat from the mouths of narcissists.


Feel the energy, no matter how weak in this instant, that enlivens

Your radiating mind, your cheeks and eyes, yours, and only,

Blow your winds into the right directions, erase their voices, their fragility

Depends on you, hold your own body, and speak those words, those key sentences.


Let your own waves reign through your body, gallop and cleanse

The roots of ill-intended pest weeds, let them breathe once more and grow,

With the air you give and provide, the solace and warmth.

Rock all the elements in your body back and forth and be the sole mistress of your own

Golden connected silhouette.


“Ophelia” by Thomas Francis Dicksee (1819-1895)



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