So much is given, received, and lost in ones journey. So many possessions endowed with meaning- items cherished as symbols of what lay invisible along the road, acting as markers and sometimes tombstones, and when the jewel is lost and the giver long gone, perhaps there then only exists a ghost on a trail, a breeze through the trees and leaves, a whisper of memories gone but not forgotten.
The trail is littered with diamonds, venetian glass, red suede stilettos, and necklaces of all kinds. Wedding rings, lovers rings, fur lined gloves, vintage dresses, ball gowns, brodcade, books of wisdom and journals of poems long unfound and never to be discovered under the docks of childhood lakes. All gone. All mourned for the memories they held, the lives they lived, the items shared, given and received. Items one thought one would have forever, items that held with in them some meaning of permanency. All gone. Perhaps leaving a trail of semi precious bread crumbs. Leading back to what?
The path behind me must be tracked by jewel thieves.
~ In the room where you once lived inside of me, There sits dusting furniture, Covered in white sheets. Blades of sun sneak through shutters And illuminate the particles of us Still floating in the air.
~ Last night I could not sleep.
Eyes and I looked out the window at the points where the trees meet the sky. So full of feeling I could have been the harvest moon floating in my sheets. Writing sits in the corner and stares; calls, begs a crafting hand, As the angel hidden inside the unfinished stone sings hymns for release, To stretch her wings. So my verse calls from the corners cage, Wishing to be released and shared, read and voiced in dark hours of the night.
I see shadows from my window and watch the candle smoke in the corners of my dark. Oh, these sweet dark hours of the night. The hours of solitude and reflection of flickering light on lonlieness set with sweetness. In the darkness, hours halt and seconds are kept in the space between the movement of a flame. In truth, perhaps this is the essence, the varied and rhythmic dance of a flame.
~ I often observe there is much truth that I sense and yet is not spoken. Looking in someones eyes one receives novels in moments. In a pause, a hesitation, there is more communicated than words ever could. It is not through words that we feel anothers love, it is in the space between the words, the moment the other loses their thought in your face and they can only smile for suddenly the words lack importance. It is in the scanning of your face, the desire to see through the mask. It is in the pull of hair and commanding kiss. It is in the gentle strokes we give as we suffer to sleep.
Love exists. It does not need words of confession. It is the necessary human compassion. Every living creature screams for love between their words and within their actions. It is as vital as water and as scarce as a desert. Could we not open our eyes, see ourselves in another and extend our hands? And if we did, could we not give the receiver the permission to turn and do the same? Could not, perhaps, this seeing be contagious? Could it be to share, to receive, and send off again, releasing, allowing it to spread, this the most joyful of viruses.
So I implore you, my reader, to be the fountain in the wasteland, be the Love in your silence, strive to stand in her harrowing presence, and be exposed by her. Come out from behind words and perhaps see that with in the silence each living thing is saying the same thing.
~ This tenderness is food for the sensible parts of our being. These soft kisses that awake our sleep And spread smiles from heart across lips and eyes.
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