I know in death I will be freed. And it will be bitter-sweet like smoke leaving scorched trees. I know in life I owe a debt from all the other lines with a signal to collect.
It's OK to love this mess; the pain & disappointments. While the heart keeps a rhythm, there's a future quietly awaits.
Who could that be? Solid and warm to the touch, as natural as it was, as familiar as a dream? Who maintains these heartbeats? When a message is received, the flesh that withholds the clues that can't be told? Who would that be? An afternoon fantasy? A phantom made out of light sifting through the leaves? Could that be me?
May reality be your playmate when illusions fade. May it storms when you're strong & calms when you're weak. May you find people that are your missing piece. May reverence overcome hate. May your possession be few, and your spirit be great.
If I have to be the perfect something, I would be the perfect ruin; the splendor that never was but rumored by decline and sighs. A romantic vision made in the stillness of memories where troubles are forgotten and perfection reigns.
Things being said in silence, you have to be in it to hear; good will & inevitable murders for the reverence of the mystery: in the quiet where life hides, guarded by mosquitoes.
I think I've been wrong, mistaken being weak with strong. All the judgements & indignations, yet taken no actions. There's the sense of loss, plus the rage & escapes. But why am I still here? Just to stand around? Maybe I will be happy, by chance, to help someone, anyone. It's always been an excuse, that "I felt deeply, & cared too much."
I only feel loved when there's thunders from afar; count my lover's heartbeat with the raindrops who gave me flesh, blood and a desire for something else. Is it wrong to look beyond these two handfuls of dust?
The ones that belong here no longer belong here. Those that pretend to belong here were made to remain here. Those that belong here spiritually don't get to be here peacefully. Those that need to be here materially get to destroy here completely. Who belongs here? Long journey where?
When they die maybe I will have a tea time tasting a world passing me by. When they die. Maybe the window will be wider & the images seem kinder. When they leave me behind again.