• Sonja Rue

What could possibly go wrong?




What could possibly go wrong?

When digging for answers under foundations of coliseums, caves and catacombs.


Instead, we find great rifts opening.


Shimmering screens surround the spectators in rows, framing the stage.


Tragic tales entertain the dark places.

Disguised as saving the world, we watch ourselves fall away.


Our smallness is but a gentle surface ripple.


Still, the depth calls out its questions….


Hands ache from digging.

Hearts break from the effort to keep up.

Blood is spilt, as fast-tracks to self-betterment are carved.


These skins, decorated with maps, mark the exact location of heaven.


Like opaque ocean surfaces, where things float and congeal.

Murky eyes hide from the future, thinking that time has stopped.


With fearful brushstrokes they paint faces, framed by perfection,

while lips twist into easy answers.


All eyes for solutions…

They dangle like diamonds before miners.


These remade bodies, hold fast to their tangled senses.

Web-like patterns across scattered minds.

Intersecting truths give birth to unease.

Heaviness defines the pattern.

Softness becomes a simple decoration, flattering the rough edges of power.


These borders belonging to imaginary kings, criss-cross the landscape,

interrupting the way home.

Bodies morph like sand dunes overtaking the forests

as far as the eye can see.


Poor crippled backs carry the weight of broken wings.

Wealthy and violent fingers tear at the seams of their own transcendent stories,

Fears whisper into the wounds.

All ears tuned to sorrow’s frequencies,

So that even in these fractured caverns, they echo.


Like chests hollow from hunger, the slightest breeze blows, and the ribcage trembles.

Heartstrings lose their meaning and only bars are left standing.


From inside the cage the view is narrow

Scarcity enclosed in the scrutiny of wrongness

The search for what is lacking turns all other ideas to dust.

So that only one side can speak, at a time.

And only one ear can listen, while pathways in the brain die.

Trails that once hosted so many synapses, back and forth…

Un-Earthed, spilled all over the surface

Like oil

Like ashes

Like bones

When we dig for answers

Under colosseums, caves and catacombs.

Sonjarue2019




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Whether our muse speaks with imagery, language, movement or sound, we find a common language.

As we dance between way of seeing, we share in understanding.

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