tried to leave its bequeath
in the hope
it would heal
in the last
she nourished that patch with those flammable tears,
from jagged tears
and all that bares,
the chanting of years’
She returned in the blink of a decade,
by perpetual dawning
of the quiet hymn
of the rose.
(A lovely musical interlude by a lovely man).
Now the dune crescendoed right in front of her. Had she climbed it? What side was she on? Did it matter? This weary could not answer.
Sifting it through her fingers, she couldn’t find the piece she was looking for. So she let that gentle wind catch them all instead.
She wrapped herself in the cool of the breeze. And when she woke, she smiled, for there was nothing left. Of this dune of memories.
Nothing, that is, but him.
My heart is heavy.
I heard tonight from a good friend that one of their other friends (who I haven’t met) took their own life.
I tried to write something for anyone in that heart wrenching situation of debilitating loneliness, but the words didn’t come. Then I remembered this lovely piece of music by Enya’s sister from years ago. It holds no religious significance to me, I just love the beauty of it.
Leaning on the picket fence, (because,
they are so comfortable)
my mind handed myself a cup of tea,
the one labelled,
sagacious synaptic synergy.
I sipped on it soporifically
while cosied in the verdancy
of assumed medicinal verbiage
in the vortex of a linguistic hurricane,
the ones like an old phone exchange.
A busy one.
The tea took its effect.
(This used to be one of my favourite shows. And Katie’s voice. Wow.)
He flicked the ash out of the car window, and she knew that was the signal for her to continue. He thought he was good at pretending to listen, but she knew. When he did those long exhales he was thinking about something else, probably the zombie in his dream last night, the one distilled from the mirror that devoured him in slow motion, record time.
But she had sat on the floor, taking notes on her typewriter, writing him back into existence.
Damn, how he loved her.
that gibberish you wrote
on that napkin
if you folded it into a swan
or some other kind of origami
(the process of which
eludes and/or evades me),
then maybe we would get somewhere close
the mysterious grasp
(published March 1st)