I am sorry, but I cannot stay.
You have spent so much time caring for me, allowing me to grow. And now I must leave you at your most vulnerable state. The poison has started to drip into your veins, drop by drop. It will engulf me soon, and I am too fragile to fight. Instead I have to surrender and let pieces of you fall away. . I will always remember your gentle touch as you pulled and weaved me through your life. I will return someday - perhaps with more direction and color. For now, you do not have to worry about me. I’ll save you some time in the morning so you can enjoy your coffee a little longer and use showers strictly for carefree singing. Hair can be pretty overrated anyway.
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To Beast -
Sometimes I too do not appreciate the body in which I live. My body is fragile and covered with scars, fissures in my soul. I was once given a rose, And I cherished its beautiful and delicate features. A rose is a vulnerable creation, much like you and I. As petals drift away, we realize the fragility of time. But we look for a new bud, a time when someone can look deep within the tiny crack and see the life inside. I steady my shaking legs on the rug,
letting them nestle into the worn surface. Before me lies an endless void, the rug on the other side scarcely visible. I gently place a paw on this cold, merciless ground. My whole body cringes at the sound of my nails against this horrible surface they call a floor. If I stretch my neck a little further, maybe I can reach that tiny bone perched precariously in the middle. My front paws slip on the surface And I skitter back onto the safe softness of the rug. The high pitched voices persist, and I realize the automatic wagging of my tail Is encouraging them. I give up and walk back to my bed. These humans are making a fool of themselves. Hair freshly washed,
drying slowly among the moon and stars. Settle into the faint smell of dad’s cologne, the scent of Sundays. Three books, nestled in the crisp crinkle of the floral comforter. The soft crack of the spine reveals a heart among a flourish of red ink. Glossy pages, reflecting tiny words and pastel pictures, the edges slipping between fingertips. Mom’s soft voice, interspersed with words rolling slowly off a young tongue. A hushing sound of the slow collapse as eyelashes are beckoned downward by the lavender color of dreams. (inspired by "Delicate Details") A soul as fragile as paper
has a place somewhere. Thoughts float and settle like dust. Somewhere deep inside, a quiet stirring. A river rushes hot and loud, finding a small space to filter. In a steady stream, the river and dust collect among the cool ceramic surface. Warmth exudes, healing the cracks. And some evaporates, curls -- and dances into the air. (inspiration for poem) |