destiny

i love smooth words, like gold-enamelled fish
which circle slowly with a silken swish,
and tender ones, like downy-feathered birds:
words shy and dappled, deep-eyed deer in herds,
come to my hand, and playful if I wish,
or purring softly at a silver dish,
blue persian kittens fed on cream and curds.

i love bright words, words up and singing early;
words that are luminous in the dark, and sing;
warm lazy words, white cattle under trees;
i love words opalescent, cool, and pearly,
like midsummer moths, and honied words like bees,
gilded and sticky, with a little sting.

i am blessed, i need to learn to accept and embrace it.

hope, like feathers and stones and sea glass. hope, like the little things we pick up and drop into our pockets. hope, because although it seems like the pain of it, the weight of it, will never leave completely, it will. hope, because the only way to know this is to live this and i will!
ps. this summer i want to learn how to surf.

through the looking glass

alice - "would you tell me please, which way i ought to go from here?"
cat - "that depends a good deal on where you want to get to?"
alice - "i don't much care where"
cat - "then it doesn't matter which way you go"
alice - "so as long as i get SOMEWHERE"
cat - "oh you're sure to do that, if only you walk long enough"

i do not want to get out of bed in the morning. sometimes when i am doing things i feel as though my heart is deliberately calling out to me. almost like a little voice. not my conscience but my heart, whispering, this is where you belong. i haven't had this in a while now. i feel like my soul is intrinsically tied to the earth, that my roots are buried deep within the soil & my soul exists outside of me, all around me in the wind. i am completely and utterly alone. i want to fall asleep, and wake up with our bodies entwined.

dying notes

im afraid to think - how many years will i spend trying to remember?

my faith has been restored in humanity. if only temporary, i want to remember. its in the blood.

fall back down

we run the streets on the last of our days when the sun has long faded into storybook forever and the pages of hours closed with must. but we continue, break thought he appendixes and index and glossary and the hard cover stretches in blue space before us--the final frontier!--just to stick our tongue out at god.