My heart with desire tense, I knew: naught
But this blue eve of bloody stars, of wounds
Raw—the sighs of one who is oft distraught—
Could this, my manic body, maroon
Where brave souls go to find the bliss they sought;
Thinking about certain aspects my job for just a few minutes can induce a feeling of anxiety, a tightening of the chest and quickening of the heart; in contrast, reading a couple pages of a book on physics can release […]
She isn’t loud, but neither is she quiet, the breeze.
Her whispers are parcels lost to time,
Her hem a memory that rustles upon the sky.
She carries a timeless correspondence
Penned by writer we cannot know,
Delivered to a lover we cannot see.
Where is the future? Surely not beyond my window!
Surely not in the leaves that listen to the past!
The breeze trembles before she is shaken.
I stand to face her, the breeze.
She reminds me of a nameless something;
She is a sieve collecting dreams in air.
I too am a breeze, I tell her. I too swirl
And swirl and swirl, ad infinitum.
It is late and my mind should be drifting through the colorful abyss of deep sleep, yet tonight sleep will not come. I am like a hungry flower who dreams of bees so ardently that all thoughts of pollen and nectar disappear; the world for which I long has crumbled into a fine mist of cool air and gentle breezes.