my body is transparent.
stained glass.
splitting the light that shines through me.
straight to my heart.
i scatter, refracting the spectrum.
we lose what is most bright,
we keep what is most dark.
other times, this masterpiece i call myself can be seen as a whole picture.
this is a story.
the letters make the heart flutter, stutter like adjectives.
bending across our crooked tongues.
we all know evil.
we speak it.
other times, we speak of what's pure and what's sweet.
we are not arid.
we are not barren.
writing people in.
writing people out.
the only constant in this narrative is stage and the cast.
stories alter, there is a vague, but vivid filter.
this light continues to refract.
this light continues to split.
it has been said before.
the circle will remain a circle.
trails burning white hot.
our feet exhausted with the weight of what could have been,
what should be, what hasn't come to light yet.
you spin stories like yarn.
the knots tangle us to one another.
our calloused fingertips grow like armour.
and what often confuses me,
is how we can be so sensitive and understanding,
but be as immovable as sedimentary structures
that the tectonics of this society has shaped us into.
"that's the problem with humanity.
we all try so hard to be special and unique,
to stand out,
that we forget we are all just human.
just. human.
not that being a human doesn't have it's perks.
not that i don't love this beautiful and tragic existence.
what happened to the collective consciousness?"
our bodies are not bottles.
our blood bears no message.
time and love cannot be bent in or out of shape.
we are who we are.
what has happened has already come to pass.
to move on is to grow.
no matter how desperate you are to find your niche.
your slot in this dying world.
the cave in your chest is nothing,
absolutely nothing,
compared to the immense size of our tender, yet worn down hearts.
we are not barren.
No comments:
Post a Comment