Life as a string
balanced in tension between
One’s left and right
index fingers and thumbs
Taught and lax
Pulled and released,
allowed to be
Watching one’s self,
the cinema of stimuli
The emersion and the
distancing
Tattered raveled
twine of who one is
In the universal and
the individual woven
Seeing and being the
silken fibers
Light reflecting and
absorbing
In perpetual cycles
of wanting others
To see and not see
the quark stories
Of how we see
ourselves
This story of me,
heroic, fiendish, and sterile
Sand-like in
microscopic Babylons of seashells
Begging those who
approach to wield delicate ears
To hear the oceans
in our breaths
The brine and
cackling winds of joy and terror
To face the spit of
seas upon cheeks and bask in us
No taming, but
cradling our words in a cup of hands
Like a titanic
goddess of grace to take two hands
Into a bowl
Their string nested
in the basin
To dive below the
waters of our tumult and bombastic festivities
And hold us steady
Peering down at
their human life witnessing a shaking forest of fingers
A rattling soup
hoping we do not see their love as a prison
As our string
stretches around the circumference of their planetary palms
Reassuring of our
choice to be held
Perspective of the
holder and the held flipping circles
Of who is receiver
and giver
Moments blink as
ships launch and crash
We are not the hull,
the mast, or the string that guides the sail
We are the rhythm of
air that sets the tide and the wind
We are the choice to
see both the horizon and the seashell
We are our
permission to be as we are
No comments:
Post a Comment