Tuesday, December 14, 2010

Cuts.

Sinister snapshots force themselves upon an idle mind.
People go out of their way to tell me things.
It seems Hate is a word bandied readily in some circles.
And yet strangely, closer to The Storm, I am more at peace.

********

My friend calls me brother and I know it to be more than words.
My road is built upon these things, brotherhood, open heart, fearlessness -
real things which hold under scrutiny.
And I smile when I think the journey may take longer,
for these last months I have found the journey to be joy.

********


I am no artist.
I prefer the sight of a mountain to a Warhol.
I prefer my fingers blistered than inked.
My music is a craft, a trade
the exploration of wood, the obsession with detail, the joy of the spontaneous.
Saturn's Satisfaction in Hard Work.
Shoddy shoes upon a rocky path upon which I can hold and grasp each stone's tale.


********

May!

The map that is laid out to me keeps me focused.

And the fire burns again, healing the cuts
as the scars ghost pale and pleasant.

********

Everything blurs into Hope.

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