Saturday, June 23, 2012

Inbetween the opposing ends

Embodied the finest theories, fully. Now, to say it's possible that it could've been any other way is as pointless as an attempt to forecast the future. 

I drank from another mother's womb, the energy of a birth so imperfect, that the world became alive for me that day, years before my own birth, the day my mothers womb became dust.

Incinerated in an inferno so thick, she lives on in us.  As tragic as it is fortunate. 
I could be your brother.  Your sister.  Your friend.  Your lover.  I could be you. 

Volatile and charming.  Glorious.  Nature. 

Grace thrashes against both sides of my skin, as if fighting for breath and flesh is where it must live.

I catch emotion like disease, and at the height of illness, feel things without names.

Four feathered shoulders shoulder the cast iron weight of living. Together, alone.

Love must be the color of a tiger lily in the pink light of an enlarged sun rising over the city.  Some cross between orange and red, fluorescent, glowing, and both ephemeral, but lasting.

A fire that freezes and a frost that burns.  Frigid heat alive in my gut, carried always, through the mist, into and out of the abyss. 

Those who seek my love may never find it; those who share it, will have it. Always.

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