My path will not lead me to an eternity of salt
for gazing at what is behind me
I always consider what my bare feet carry me away from
but I do not visit to pages turned
My future is spilling over with water
Freshwater
New life
No salt
No salt
No salt
A wise woman once said
the hours between three am and five am
are sacred, fluid
The veil between worlds grows thinner
spirits dip in and out of realms
You can hear inklings and etchings
stories and dreamings
if you rise in time
to catch the fraying threads therein
Despite all the ready wisdom in the worlds-
I always sleep in
She's sitting on her bedroom floor, looking up at the pink clock on the wall and wondering if this is the last time she will ever have to see her father. The hands of the clock tick and she looks down at her own. "I am so young. I should not feel this sad. I am so small. I should not feel a weight this massive." She found what little air there was to breathe in that foggy bedroom and she choked it down- awkwardly, inexperienced. Eyes back to the clock. Back down to her pale, snow-bitten palms. Her crying halted when He walked back in. "You are breaking my heart." She didn't say anything. The clock carried on.
"How lucky you must be to be inanimate. To not feel the way I feel.", she thought. She wanted a clock's life. She desired an existence where nothing could hurt her in the way that bruised her each second. "I am so young." He left the room, slamming the door. She remembered the legal office lady's words: "You don't have to see your dad anymore if you don't want to. You just have to tell him." Like it would be so easy to tell him that. She would rather have covered herself in fish oil and swam through shark-infested waters than to look him in the eyes and speak her peace. There was no peace. Only a clock to envy.
Writing has taken a happy backseat nap in the long car ride of creation. This week and last, I've been bruises and a backache from worki...
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