It sits in me, this restless urge to fight the depths of what I do not know. To bring light to the space where darkness grows. The void, pitch black, the feared and the not. Sacred somehow in its time and space. Of me it does not care, I am merely the beast knocking at its door. The fire breathing tendrils and caught up smoke, trapped and panting with rapid eye. I am the nothing to its all. The attached and unaware. Still I dive the depths and search in frantic waves. This thing that is me, aware and free.
Its sits inside me, an eternal flame, demanding quietly, gently, something more. Breathing it in, breathing it out, it hungers for all I can give. Every experience, taste and sound it wants to know. Every touch it wants to feel. A bottomless pit I cannot feed enough. It wears my skin. Knows no bounds as it reaches for you, eager to sample yet again another sweet drop of tumultuous heat, rousing from the deepest places in me to the sky. Somehow to bear witness, to prove with nothing more than breath the sanctity of us. Satiation there will never be.
The salted sleep, the ocean waves, sand between my toes, safety, peace, the world revolving round, trees in the wind, all the simple things neglected or that which has been taken for granted. The heart fractured and now opening, healing, the stars in the sky, books, fingers entwined. The innocence returned with wisdom entwined. Songs, peals of laughter, dogs barking and a smattering pitter pattering of rain falling. Knowledge life’s enumerable pains all pass. It is not the big moments remembered, more the day to day grind forgotten in its simplicity and the growth of soul, now that is bliss.
Those mystic things With timeless beings And worlds standing still They give my heart a thrill I walk through pages Of all the ages Battling countless foes And sharing in characters’ woes Whether digital, found on a Nook or Kindle My how my battery does dwindle Or found on a self As if placed there by an elf With hard or paperback in hand I sit or I stand Until I have read I cannot go to bed They catch me with their hooks Those magic things I call books.
Wild thing, heart unbroken, moving free across the miles The tundra your playhouse, the whispering grass and wind, your friends Traps set, now sprung. Magnificent beast fallen to your knees Ropes they strap upon your flesh Binding and herding every muscle’s movement. Centuries fly by, the taming has been done Loyal as an old dog Except when the human hand nears your skin The touch – electrified barbed wire – Brings with it the mix of fear and trust built up over years. And there, for a moment, beats the heart that still roams free. Almost visible to the naked eye, The beauty of such a wild thing.
I am stepping out of the darkness, from the tomb that has enshrined me for far too long. The cocoon I made to keep me safely tucked away is old and worn. Not needed. I emerge… A butterfly, yet to test her wings. Embracing the light. Transforming on the winds of the Earth and transcending to the Heavens above, one of the Universe’s creatures, loved and protected. The shell of my former self, the lowly caterpillar has played its part, kept me safe and warm during my long sleep. Awake and free from earthly bounds I shed the excess, leaving it behind to mark my journey. Imprisoned by shackles for a crime I did not commit, I am free again to explore… A prisoner to Continue Reading →
Sitting here picking flowers I whittle away the hours Another day of dusk till dawn Restless sleep and waking yawns Reaching for what is not there Nothing to hold, you left me bare. So I sit at night on grass and dew Trying not to cry and stew As I hide here in the dark Waiting for death to hit his mark Change this setting, change the sun This realism is a bullet in the gun.
It is that kind of day, cast over, clouds of navy and grey blocking any of the sun’s rays. I suppose I should be glad, nature’s watering day, yet the ground squelches its soggy belch. My sandaled feet drown in puddles (no one said I was smart that way). Even the butterflies and birds refuse to fly. Today should be a holiday, a volunteered Saturday. I’d curl into a book with coffee or tea in hand. Hibernate away the day. Drizzle honey on a warm piece of toast or toast to my honey as we slip into another 100 words.