if you had to hold still,
press your head against the window,
Who would break the quiet urge to sing for the sake of the world?
I see you contain it all, hanging your shoulders down like loose curtains
Drifting, holding onto this morning’s sun as you stirred and sighed
Drank good coffee
Purchased a pack and wrote down some sensible things,
Serious things taught to us by the rhythm of time, brimming with dust on
Moments end complete with debris, casting very large shadows
on the art that we create,
the music we create,
the stories we celebrate, to make glorious chapters of our war-torn, shit variable lives
that just doesn’t make much sense anymore.
You sit patient and watch it all unfold.
From your heart to your hands, in a matter of minutes,
becomes a fog from the here and there.
You’ve done something right
out of something wrong,
and you tear it all apart to piece it back together,
crafted into something bewilderingly beautiful,
streams of your weaker spots, lulling the world to dream,
and finally perhaps to sleep.
What was it in your heart, that there could still be a small hint of tenderness?
Beneath the dug-down needles, inflamed hearts, and paper cut writing
It’s what we do.
to give not just to survive.
The deeper that sorrow carves into your being, the more joy you can contain. – Kahlil Gibran