We, the rescued,
From whose hollow bones death had begun to whittle his flutes,
And on whose sinews he had already stroked his bow-
Our bodies continue to lament
With their mutilated music.
We, the rescued,
The nooses wound for our necks still dangle
Before us in the blue air-
Hourglasses still fill with our dripping blood.
We, the rescued,
The worms of fear still feed on us.
Our constellation is buried in dust.
We, the rescued,
Beg you:
Show us your sun, but gradually.
Lead us from star to star, step by step.
Be gentle when you teach us to live again.
Lest the song of a bird,
Or a pail being filled at the well,
Let our badly sealed pain burst forth again
And carry us away  -
We beg you:
Do not show us an angry dog, not yet -
It could be, it could be
That we will dissolve into dust
Dissolve into dust before your eyes.
For what binds our fabric together?
We whose breath vacated us,
Whose soul fled to Him out of that midnight
Long before our bodies were rescued
Into the arc of the moment.
We, the rescued,
We press your hand
We look into your eye-
But all that binds us together now is leave-taking.
The leave-taking in the dust
Binds us together with you

**Nelly Sachs

every man looks bigger than they are in the shadows
it takes courage to step in the light
and really be seen

A time comes when you no longer can say: my God.
A time of total cleaning up.

A time when you no longer can say: my love.
Because love proved useless.
And the eyes don't cry.
And the hands do only rough work.
And the heart is dry.

Women knock at your door in vain, you won't open.
You remain alone, the light turned off,
and your enormous eyes shine in the dark.
It is obvious you no longer know how to suffer.
And you want nothing from your friends.

Who cares if old age comes, what is old age?
Your shoulders are holding up the world
and it's lighter than a child's hand.
Wars, famine, family fights inside buildings
prove only that life goes on
and not everybody has freed himself yet.
Some (the delicate ones) judging the spectacle cruel
will prefer to die.
A time comes when death doesn't help.
A time comes when life is an order.
Just life, without any escapes.

**Carlos Drummond de Andrade

And very much not you.

𝙸𝚝 𝚝𝚘𝚘𝚔 𝟷𝟼 𝚍𝚊𝚢𝚜
𝚝𝚘 𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚔 𝚞𝚙 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚛𝚊𝚐𝚎
𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚗𝚎𝚛𝚟𝚎
𝚝𝚘 𝚜𝚒𝚝 𝚒𝚗 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚜𝚎𝚊𝚝.
𝙷𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝙸 𝚊𝚖
𝚘𝚗 𝚖𝚢 𝚛𝚎𝚍 𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚌𝚑
𝚘𝚗𝚌𝚎 𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚝𝚒𝚖𝚎 𝚖𝚊𝚌𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚎,
𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝙸’𝚖 𝚜𝚒𝚙𝚙𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚠𝚑𝚒𝚜𝚔𝚎𝚢
𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚊 𝚗𝚘𝚛𝚖𝚊𝚕 𝚃𝚑𝚞𝚛𝚜𝚍𝚊𝚢.

There is mystery in
WORDS,
If you
ARE
not told of the meaning,
Hidden
MESSAGES
in text,
That can hide in plain sight

Hello,  I am a puddle person.
I'm certainly not the only puddle person, of course.
And I often think I'm more puddle then person.

I lay on the floor still.
People come by and see themselves reflected in me.
Sometimes they step in me,  and drops of me splish around and evaporate.

I'm content being a puddle it's, comfortable.
People are aware of me whether looking at themselves, tip toeing around me or jumping in.

I am NOT invisible.

Love me or hate me this puddle person isn't going anywhere,
until I become more puddle then person.

Sometimes
I wake
to water you.

Sometimes
I wake
to adore you.

Sometimes
I lay
awake
wanting
to pluck you