melodysnow

reading: This sorry - vardeldur it is not heartbreak. it is hearttwist; it is tornado   in a hurricane -- the course is unpredictable at best metastatic, prognosis? Look at me -- am I someone that wants to live without you?

I. In the beginning, nothing made sense. II. We entered into a state of delirium; all sanity and reason fled as startled birds. III. We clung to each other in a dizzy space, a familiar space. Together. Confusion held comfort. IV. Blue purple black light -- Have we seen the iris of God? Yet we live and breathe and walk. V. We run. VI. He chases. VII. We are afraid of why. For anger. For love. The question of life: Do we stop or do we keep at this breakneck pace?

in the next life you were a phoenix a fiery resurrection songbird of ash & second chances when you flew south for the winter, you made it every time see for you, the universe was an olympic mountain jutting out of the ocean, a temple you would never set foot in an elaborate maze you'd been lost in for too long; the only love you'd ever known was from the coalfire of your father's hands in the dark, they were the most angelic monsters, they were beacons his mind was the gears of a clock that never stopped spinning but the light, the light was a promise to be seen the fire, a dancing enchanter that never leaves the future was an echo on t

                   [to whomever is left to listen] and I thought that we could forget that we are giants, monsters with footsteps that bruise the tender flowerbeds down below we must realize that to sleep is not to wither in the decomposition of the soil we try so hard to forget was here before us, but to dream that this ground is not the barren dollhouse we have left it to be these cities are graveyards for the cost of construction, buildings tombstones for all that should have sprouted but was built instead, scraping the dreams from the sky like stars burning out and falling back to earth nothing grows here anymore our concrete sprawls

every day has a cool, quiet room at the center of it. the walls are light coming and going. the window is an opening in your memory, a chapel between moments. the edge of your life curves there and you become more of what you have always been. the distinction between falling and rising is lost in the space between particles and everything grows.

5.88 trillion color-copies of what lies between here and the water: weather-broken pine trees, rain-kneaded dunes and the edge of a city that pouts on the county map like a stab-wound-- where the century gets notched one year at a time into the calf of a stone hero in the park and a single ferrari-red flower petal scatters in the wind multiplied a thousand times like a lone ray of light broken through a prism of spray, like a mile repeated imperfectly, thank god, over and over. I reach the water and its wordless thrashing creates a vacuum which I fill with random confessions— beauty is what makes us tell the t

I shall die with words like minnows still attached to the strings of my heart, swimming like sperm, jostled and mad, bearing the prologue of life, the opening bars, the glorious first drone of the chanter that moves blood in the way of volcanoes to war, to explosion, the crepuscular exuberance of dawn, these minnows attached to the shimmering lines. But the little darlings get confused in the shadows, panic when light breaks above the tiny Os of their heads, while the heart-pole bends like the long slim fingers of a willow, down, pointing down to the cress-edged creases and rocky seams of the cold water shallows that only the babies