Sunday 27 March 2016
accidental excavations
fallen to the floor the mandalas you rocked and spun on your hips. now you hold still and undone in the centre listening to more than moving mouths spilling more or less than what they want to say. a kindness complicated by the anonymous shifts and overlaps of tangled heartstrings and the interlocking rings of the coronas of our lives expanding. always the business of feeding the fire, burning and rising, begging the dark to come because there are things that do not sleep, but slip into the cracks to break loose and shatter the refuge found in disguise that only turns you into an echo of yourself like a lingering presence you can't quite touch. a summons to revel in your own electric storms crashing white...
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3 comments:
That penultimate line is like drinking from a glass that never empties that never empties. It's also like a painting, as concrete and physical an abstract thing can be, and it's like watching animals in the clouds, while laying back down in a wheelbarrow when one was small enough to fit conveniently in it, the feet dangling outside from the knees, the toes nearly but not quite touching the grass.
I like that. i'd want to touch the grass though and feel it's colour through my toes ;)
also, it's like seeing through the hall of mirrors. with the crystal balls you've been juggling all your life dropped at your feet.
and at night when you lit a single candle the hall becomes a starry sky.
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