Today I want the touch of a kindred soul on the solar crux of my being: to remind me that the sky will have and hold me:
that the earth will love me even if the trees pass away.
I want the kind of love that sticks to the back of your throat and mind and heart and and burns your eyes and your lips: the kind that brands you.
I brace myself: the maelstrom passes: fades turnabout: and leaves me the ghosts of those who once lived and dreamed and loved for the entire measure of their hearts.
So now I hold myself to the dying depth of my soul: and I continue to see with blinded eyes the beauty of this place.
The lost will always find the morrow: and the sinner salvation in forlornity.
And I have these recurring dreams of falling utterly in love with something so alien and so consuming I never want to turn back: even if it means I disappear.
And they will lament at the funeral they will hold for me: they will think me dead while I am alive. Is this selfishness?
Until then we strive for what makes the dreaming real: And I will keep hope: but remain relentlessly myself.
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