-
If I were back on home ground
If I were back on home ground, my mind would go no further than the walls of my bedroom. There are voices that press, squeezing my ribs— I would not speak. not as I have here, across oceans; I would not have sung for you, my breath barely escaping. The irony is what strangles you,…
-
What houses you?
your dirt-caked bare feet, your dried lips, formless drapings, and your hair—earth and rain-stained. What houses you? The paths that hold us apart are so few The changing lines are a hair’s breadth apart. Sister, what houses you?! I fear for what I have while your eyes dream in nothing. Oh, sister! How have you lived?! My fear is…
-
Moth to flame
Like moths to flame, we stretch through whatever means, to touch upon our greatness. And therein lies our short struggle into glorious combustion. One by one, we flutter to the light first or last, we live that same struggle and die that same death and in this stream of wings and fire is all of…
-
Falling is flying
Falling is flying If all direction is relative and all there is, is Infinite Falling is flying
-
Words will forever
Words will forever be the clunky steps in the eloquence of silence
-
Only a boulder
Only a boulder among the glittering rocks of the river. It is not that it fights you; it only eases against the speed at which you skip in the river’s current. The depths call it harder than the ripples ever could. Have patience, world! For once, the boulder moves, the waves will touch deeper and further than one…
-
Unhewn
I seek the untrained eye, the untrained hands, and the untrained tongue; in such things, do the strings lie open to the dark northern winds, and sings a music unrefined, unhewn and never repeated.
-
Oh! How She commands me!
Oh! How She commands me! Every cell and atom quivers and spins to Her. Not a hair can I raise on my forearm but from Her cool breath blowing over my skin, inflating my lungs, and popping my joints alive Like a puppeteer, She dances me away and away; and I laugh in ecstasy…
-
Tender is…
Tender is my lips, murmuring over my sister’s burning brow Tender is my eyes, glazing in the purple sunset of your memory Tender is my fingers, running through my mother’s graying hair Tender is my breath, smoking white in a cold night, wisps curling over in quiet longing Tender is my silence, when words refuse to sound…
-
“Be,” says it.
You need not command it demand from it, nor fight it in fear. You are but a speck in its Eye floating like dust motes with not a finger on your flight’s— trajectory. You can do nothing but drift in its presence each existing for the other: To see and be seen.
MindWraith 