I lost him in the airI lost him in the air.I should have known. The sun that day had been shining, but not brightly. The wind that day was present, but not blowing. The sky that day had been a shade in between two blues.A hole cracked open in the sky, sounding more fearsome and terrible than the hungry jabberwock in the late afternoon. It trilled and boomed and clashed. Dissonance dashed across the edge of the ink torn hole, wicked nails curling up cloudless pieces of sky.Dreams began to trickle out, the holes in the net of truth too wide to catch them. As they splashed against my skin and hair, I became damp on the inside. The dreams of others filled my head and spilled out my toes and elbows, clogging my throat until I could vomit them out.And he soaked them up willingly, becoming a part of them. I did not understand. So hollow, and so full.I wiped the unfamiliar minds from my sour mouth and called to him, but through the chatter of strange voices wishing and remorsing he could not hear me.He read
Empty Fistfulls and GoosebumpsWe stood outside; rain fell as if Angry gods flicked empty fistfuls of water towards a paradox Earth. I was warm and the sand was warm and the wind was warm and the water was warm and the thorny plants in the ground were warm. You said you were cold. I could see the cat in you shivering and disdaining this moment. And yet I begged you to stay, offering my heart and a broken face, open arms to share. You lingered and the water pounded upon you, holding no longer, you left. I sat in the sinking mud and held myself instead of you, trying to understand the message being sent to me, in sheets and waves of water, the sky wringing its hair onto the tile floor earth, whipping the dripping ends of its towel around and around, just to watch the puddles accumulate. Something dashed my plans in a short sleeved shirt; and under a porch, the rain was cold.
Home is like LoveIt is the way grass feels like birth; wood feels like wisdom; lace feels like romance. It is falling asleep next to someone who truly cares about you. It is listening to breath that is softer than the feathers on a newborn angel wing, and more rhythmic than the pattern of the seas. It is the way a crayon tastes like laughter; a brick tastes like tradition; a leather bound book tastes like fire. It is the soft pull of blankets, that cradle the mind into lullabies instead of nightmares. It is waking up to a presence like light shining through the mosaic cracks in clouds, assuring that all of your hopes can be fulfilled. It is the way wind smells like life; rain smells like forgiveness; the sun smells like dreams.
Free SpiritI think; that it is something everyone wants to do, but never does. But I want to really do it. I am not willing to let my artistic whims and dreams die, neglected and dusty. Fragile and delicate on the shelf; broken if examined, and glued makeshift. I am not willing to let the other part of Life, the part only learned by being free and doing , just esacpe me; become grey and wither, because I refuse to take it. Nor let society drag me down and tell me No. I will do it because I want to, and because it is the thing to do. It is simply the thing to do.