are there words for this moment?
am I here for the words?
the windy whistling of avian chatter,
like a lace rope, threaded in a circle around me,
a box of street traffic downhill, slightly opened.
a siren its open bow.
my hands stop above the keys,
my bettah stares at me,
‘what now?,
what else can be taken from the air?”
I used to have a life. Although, only now in hindsight, do I realize that it was a life only at certain moments or brief intervals or long un-predictable stretches, but it was a life interrupted quite frequently. I used to have a life, the same way a sick person might have had health before their illness or as their illness krept into bed silently with them, like a mistress. I imagine the view is quite the same, frustratingly calm and as un-reversable as time itself. I am quite content to be where I am at present. I know I am where I need to be. The exterior pain offered to me is that offered by a barking dog that will run at a slap or a kick. The interior pain is much more solemn and patient. Sitting in my chest like a big, blue, copper buddah. I have to be as wise and as patient as that buddah while I wait for these pains to disappear from my life. Only in this way can I make room for any future joy. There is a race and there is a finish-line. There is definetely a prize, although I dont know what it is. Maybe just the finish is the prize, tho I hope its before, something on the way, like a view or a bottle of water or a dog running happily along side me.
All the bridges to pain have worn out under their weight. There is nowhere for grief to grab onto. All your ammunition is spent. I am calloused and fearless in the dark. I am prepared for any attempt on my heart. The only road I see leads to joy. This road will not be interrupted. Now your eyes and skin will change color when you see how quickly I race forward and away, protected by one thousand shields made from the pain you have given me.
My Emerald Heart. 