And I turn the page...

Afraid to fly...
If I fly across an ocean... will there we a place on the sands of a unfamiliar beach for me to rest weary wings and an even more exhausted soul... or will I be left to circle until I am too tired to fly home... and let the waves wash me wherever?

Afraid to open...
When the windows became too dirty to see the dream that once shown through, I closed the shutters... blanketed them with heavy drapes... and silenced the birds outside that once sang my soul. These windows are new now... but what views do they possess if I tear aside the fortitude of my cloth rampart?

My visions in the night are still the same... why have my movements change? My dance steps are slower and more careful... lest I step on the thorns of the roses with which life has blessed me. But the dreams are rapid like a river... and soft and sweet as the clear water in them... my wild spirit still lives there like a bright orange flower tumbling down the rippling spring. I will find this spirit again when it pauses in the shallow pools near the castle columns of horsetail long enough for a tender hand to clasp it.

I was so ready to fly not so long ago... but now that the cage door is unlatched, I cannot seem to find my wings.

I miss the world I love... I think I will find my place in it soon... I'll have a place to rest my wings. But is it here... or there? I toss a stone in the stream... and the rings of waves carry me to...

*smiles*

Shhhh.... it's a secret. ;)

And in the margins...

Silence is the liquor with which to quench a broken heart. Yet, the heart is not broken by some sentimental romance but by the cruelty of life's acrid milieu. A poisonous wave that laps at the delicate morphology of the shores of one's aspirations and polishes the definitive textures of its stones to a placid yet vapid uniformity. And the stones of one's heart shift with wrenching indignity but never finding courage or perhaps the compelling reason (as though moving mountains could calm a sinister sea) to rift and rumble with the suppressed forces of spirit. They entomb themselves in the silence and let the opiating emptiness of such an entity ameliorate the burn of haggard existence. I imbibe the listless silence just as I breath the very air, until my heart is as faded as the ambient hues strangled by overcast skies in a life where there is no sun and yet one has forgotten what it is to rain.

(6/20/2008)