words once easy liquid
feel buried
deeply hidden beneath sorrow's debris and a forest thick with minefields of contentment
i told myself a story that i was only a writer when yearning for the unreachable
spring in winter -- rain in drought
mountains from the prairie plains
where lives the fire-rise when the present drapes from a vast blue sky?
what words matter when a heart rests in these pink molecules of light?
why is it harder within the soft folds of these feathered days?
because I tell myself a story that it is
portraits captured remain tied tight to the fabric of these slow hours
tied to the belly rumblings of routine & madness even in the absence of grief's striped cage
my tarot game remains a shuffling of sensation bookmarked by Sunday's funny pages
words crafted from the bowels of whales & dreamers
lay them in the sun ....
await the burn
