Still solo, seemingly suspended, sifting soulfully, seeking some secret soft, sublime, surprising, sinful, stimulating, solid substantial syntax so synergy syncs supplemental subsidy spontaneously sans struggle.
The Stranger in Me
This frozen wheel keeps turning, returning me to this place in time, where the pools overflow and spill out onto pink velvet. I am a stranger again. The fortress stands tall. Met with a blue gaze, trapped in this locked cage, how long must I ferry this cloak?
I feel you knocking at my paper heart, folded in two like an old, fragile book. You’re peeking through the open spaces, tip-toed to get a better view. Your eyes are my eyes. Your hands work through mine. My voice carries your melody, carries your fear. Your dreams live on inside of me, your sorrow as well.
My feet are cold, I need some socks. My hair is tangled, I want a brush.
I’m so hungry.
But what I really want to do is sing and skip rope and play hopscotch. Do we have any chalk? I want to create. Do you remember how?
In this place I’ll turn within to push open the channels clogged by fire and ice, fueled by blood and breath, to recreate again. As seasons change and tumble back, the seed I feed will grow. Choose well which one to plant, which one to harvest.
Take my hand, I’ve come to play, if only for a moment.