Sunday, July 7, 2013

Drift The Sky

My forearm carries the scars of erasure, a bygone child who couldn't be.  
My wrists are not for sale. 
I carry no shame for what I have done, though I hid behind sleeves for years.  
Faded now, only I see the marks.  They are there.  And remind me of scattered desperation. 
I saw the sky today.  
In the vein of the game I play with words, I laid on my back and tried to drift the sky.  
Knowing it is only blue here.  On this Earth.  The clouds are only white here.  On this rock.  In this corner of life.  
I tried to drift the sky.  
Turn the blue into a foreign wonder, the clouds into sui generis anomalies.
It was a changeable sky.  The blue fading to white as it met the sun. The clouds morphing into pareidolia in a mind preprogrammed for such capriciousness. 
Stardust.  
Is everything we are.  
What we see.  
What we create.  
What we become.  
What we were.  
Purpose becomes a fruitless quest for treasure found only in the very synapses that give us the desire for it.
Ideas spring forth from minds that only gained the right to them in the yesterday by the clock of creation.  
Blood.  That beautiful thing that separates the mindful from the mindless.  
There is no shame in that wet reminder of the taste of ones own mind.  


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