I saw a book when I was young,
the words weren’t read, they were sung.
It sang to me like the bird calls the sky,
like the flower calls the cloud to call the rain when it’s dry.
It sang to me like the sand calls the waves,
like hollow calls empty and echos call caves.
It sang to me like stars call lovers,
......
For the one who would take on a god in his hearth, in his home,
Small, all alone.
Skinny and bare, bolder than you'd hope but not as bold as you might think.
What else to reach for if not higher,
What else to pray to if not sky fire?
The hand in its place has no chance to erase
The pain of the days long gone by.
The ankh round the neck is a drag, a behest,
A reminder that gods too shall die.
......
This girl smoked 14 cigarettes in
a span of one and a half hours
"Yeah, but they're slim," she says
"But they're still fourteen."
"Yeah, but so am I," she says.
"But... you look at least eighteen..."
......
Cool overnight rains, bear a fresh burst of spring,
Peach and pink hues grace gardens, youthful playing!
Pale lemony sunshine, at warmth's golden beginning,
And everywhere you roam, there's a novel happening.
Pink butterflies in circles, a bronzed loop de loop,
And masses of cherry blossoms, preceding red fruit.
The grass so green, pearl dewdrops gone one by one,
Like the shadows that flee, in feverish awe of the sun!
سكْرٌ مـن الألـحـاظ والأكـــــــــــــوابِ
غمـر الـوقـارَ بـمـوجه الـــــــــــوثّابِ
لـو أن مـا بـي مـنه كـان بنـــــــــاسكٍ
غنّى الجـمـالَ بـمعزفٍ وربــــــــــــــاب
فـي الخمـر للـمغرى بـهـا سببٌ وفـــــــي
هـذي العـيـون بقـيّة الأسبــــــــــــاب
يُضرمـنَ فـيـــــــــــه لظى الغرام بنظرةٍ
مشـروحةٍ عبثًا بألف كتـــــــــــــــــاب
سـرُّ الـحـيـاة، ومـا الـحـيـاةُ وسـرّهـــا
إلا بنظرة يـافعٍ وكَعــــــــــــــــــاب
......
For the one who would take on a god in his hearth, in his home,
Small, all alone.
Skinny and bare, bolder than you'd hope but not as bold as you might think.
What else to reach for if not higher,
What else to pray to if not sky fire?
The hand in its place has no chance to erase
The pain of the days long gone by.
The ankh round the neck is a drag, a behest,
A reminder that gods too shall die.
......
I saw a book when I was young,
the words weren’t read, they were sung.
It sang to me like the bird calls the sky,
like the flower calls the cloud to call the rain when it’s dry.
It sang to me like the sand calls the waves,
like hollow calls empty and echos call caves.
It sang to me like stars call lovers,
......
A weapon is a comfort is a
weapon. The street we lived
doesn’t really go anywhere but
sometimes I drive by to see
the church and the trees. I
talked about my work for a
little too long yesterday and
your shadow showed up on
the studio wall. The only
thing keeping me from feel-
......
at that tender age when one still believed
openly bleeding wounds make for devotion
cut skin, draw blood, covenanting together
all through the years of getting to know you
always being the only one to be weeded out
I live under the assumption that I will live exactly 100 years. I picked the number as a child when I was too scared to not live forever and 100 years sounded decently like forever. Then I hit fourteen, eighteen, I realize my life is nearly a fifth done. The sun circles round, the progress bar progresses. Then, I die. I was an anxious child. Very scared of death, I was obsessed, as people are with their fears, and I called my dad on his way home from work to tell him I didn’t know how I could stand being alone when everyone else is gone. I picture my parents with matching headstones, traditional, rounded at the edges. I am scared that I estimated too high and my math is all wrong. I am scared that I am far more than a fifth done with this life and I will never fully progress. I am an anxious child, still obsessed. I celebrate birthdays, fractions bouncing throughout my mind. I feel too old to be this young.
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