The cold is bitter,
it bites, and I bleed.
It cuts to the soul,
numbness takes hold,
and frozen I’m freed.
There is something about the feel of a pen gliding across a page, thick black lines flowing and turning gracefully, guided by fingers firm and comfortable on the grip. Swells and curves and haphazard lines blend and join as the poet’s blood, rich and black, fills the page.
intuition interrupted corrupted by weakness of thought the heart in its rhythm revealing frailty forgetting the soul and its purpose for being blindly following the recourse of blood on a path untraveled unknown destinations unveiling the moments that bind us together
I wonder if my words weigh heavy enough, or perhaps are too heavy for their weight?
Out there free to get lost free to find myself nothing but the horizon and the memory of you beckons. In here lost in my thoughts lost in my dreams I hold onto the moments that help me find my way back to you. I love the road where I’m going where I’ve been and the world it gives me without and within. I count the miles from there to here and back again and the years that they’ve taken and I’ve given away from you. But out there and in here while finding myself while missing you I have only myself and the moments and memories we have shared and only the road gives them back to me.
Reflecting on the impossibility of reason while embracing the possibility of chaos, I dwell on the throne of being and all that I am not. An interlude awakens the possibility of madness, inviting us to treason and the breaking of our will, if only for a moment of forsaking what could be.
And I linger in the moment, frozen by the finality of it all, hanging on the hope that it’s not really over, that there’s more to come. Savage and brutal was the release, but it wasn’t unexpected: slow was the rise, intense and elegant, deliberate in its fury, setting the stage for what was to be. Nothing was so perfect as the way it began: innocence forsaken, voluntarily cast aside, tempting Fate while invoking the Muse to spite the odds. Somewhere between before and after, control was lost, or maybe it was taken; to who, from who doesn’t really matter – just that it was as it was meant to be. And all at once there was surrender, violent in its making, a lesson learned in pressure. Neither of us forgiving, only holding on too tightly, fighting to catch our breath without losing each other. But now, in the afterglow, there is only you and I and what we used to be only a moment ago.