Around her head - one million frozen rocks. To care about this, to worry about that, to love this, to judge that, to carry, to lift, to throw, to endure, to solve, to heal, to give, to serve, to care. Oh the care is there. One million cares. One million tiny orbits. One million fireflies disturbing the dark of her sleep. No sleep. A stony haze.
Quick, take my arm. I'll hold your mind. One million miles lie ahead. Half way through she stops and looks back at herself. What do you see? A stony noose. One million miles you've promised me. We walk, time fades, we turn to look. One million flecks of glass a halo they have made. A halo, for thus a saint is made.
Saturday, January 29, 2011
Sunday, January 16, 2011
The Lion
(this is an unfinished post I started 16 months ago)
Sadness is not an art form. And those that dabble in melancholy for beauty's sake are the emotionally affluent and spoiled. Akin to the wealthy who move to Africa to shoot lions because their pocket books and schedules can afford it. Happiness is a lion. The sound of happiness a lion's roar. Joy a tiger. Peace a crane. Love a motherland. Sadness is a snake. Sadness is a hiss and a slither and a snake.
Sadness is not an art form. And those that dabble in melancholy for beauty's sake are the emotionally affluent and spoiled. Akin to the wealthy who move to Africa to shoot lions because their pocket books and schedules can afford it. Happiness is a lion. The sound of happiness a lion's roar. Joy a tiger. Peace a crane. Love a motherland. Sadness is a snake. Sadness is a hiss and a slither and a snake.
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