would that i could build my home with walls of books. make cozy corners nooks and crooks hidden stairs secret panels and window seats galore. nestled in among leather spines yellowed paper and ribbon markers to save the spot most recent read.
worry and fear tosses me back and forth, with eyes closed but not resting. weariness and anxiety hangs heavy upon the chest until i feel i cannot breathe. tangled in the sheets, i am constricted until panic drives me up and awake with a scream.
a message from the blue, out of time out of rhyme, shocks the system and tingles at the edges of old scars. stirring memories of things gained and of things lost. the naivete of youth that left you gun shy, tainted, and a little less eager to thrust your soul out into the void. where once you thought all you needed was hope and love to survive and thrive.
the night has a thousand voices and though their languages may all be different their meaning is the same. nothing is truly alone for all is connected, bonded for life and even after, for nothing ever really disappears. our molecules, our atoms combine, break apart, and combine again as something new, something different, shifting phases of existence. it is most literally a circle of life, continually turning, and ever changing.
The remote clatters Back into The carefully carved Artisan bowl, Headless Of any damage Such brash treatment Might abide. The massive supernova Of a screen up on the stand Goes black, Devoid of power To distract her anymore. She picks up a book instead, Reading art Upon a page As if it were A canvas Upon A gallery wall. The infusion Of creative beauty So complete It moves the muse To begin To whisper Again.
“Seduction was the natural progression of curiosity.” – In the Skin of a Lion by Michael Ondaatje
the harsh exhalation of conditioned air roared over everything, deafening her to bird song and rainfall and tires on gravel in the drive. the night always came as a shock. sudden darkness where once there was light, if only she had looked up sooner.
chirps and chips frantic hops darting left then right swooping up and over to the sudden eager chorus of baby beaks stretched wide in demanding supplication nestled, bent-kneed among a fern pew in the holy chapel of nature’s spirit.
I hoard them. Stacked high, Pushed deep, Tilted And adjusted As puzzle pieces In a bookcase. Overflowing, Till they cascade, A waterfall of words, To pool at my feet In a comfort Of warm paper And hard covers, That smell of Knowledge Power Imagination And connection. Their allure, Their devastation, Flows against my soul In gentle undulations And violent tsunamis To move me both minutely And throw me upon rocky shores. Always Always Do they…
There is a beauty Of words That evades me. Leaves me longing, Grasping ineffectually For The Right One. I feel their potential, Scrabbling In the back Of my mind. Yet the harder I reach The further they recede. I know They are bright stars In a night of gloom, But they refuse To share Their light With me.
