The moving of feet
Shaking, bustling, the chaos of the clunking calamity that passes through

And I feel my senses, the airs, the ground, the peace, the joy, in my senses.
And the tip of my toes, the top of my head - that is all I am,
I am only now, I am only this, I am only one.


But once, I realized what I looked at changed with a different pair of eyes - I felt like, I was all that is

And will ever be.

As I sit by the window, a blistering wind bellows
Howling at me, howling for a reason - I question.
The statue angels in the rose garden below listen in.

I close the creaking window. I shut my book on the rose colored cushion.
My reflection leaves me, alone......

The wind blows - and the window blows, open, I did not touch - anything.

Again, I close the window, the hollowing blows the trees down, but my period on sentences for myself make me shout inside me.

The written notes with scattered arrows, the massive circle in the center with a question mark - all scattered on the cushion. And as the trees shake and children scream below me, the question marks grow bolder.

My truth?

My purpose?

My intuition?

I hear a sharp shout calling my name, which does not have handed flowers in its tone. I wake down stairs. And as I close the door the paper I drew on falls to the floor,
Where dust resides

Leaving your passion and self behind to go to do something that you do not care for

Can it be held?

The moment. The determination. The moment above you, turned to dust.

The determination like arrows thrown your forehead....

How long does it last?
The fires turns to embers so quickly
The flame is blown - out.

A swirling, beating intensity like tribal drums
Will it be switched?
Passion

Can it last....
Can it sit...
for Eternity so you do not have to grasp for evaporating dust

Holding onto ones passion and desperately holding on.

To become something more, I tell you less
And as you grow into someone more, less you know

And so I write, to make sense, but my writings writher with time.....

Each slash on paper, do not complete me.
Each tense does not fufill me, but these writings stand with time.

I write - now-  less you feel you know - but my writings will be a piece that.... will sit quietly forever.

writing and feeling like whatever you write is not complete

Has the wind knocked my feet down...
Scuffed at the ends - worn out - beaten old shoes, the soles can no longer sustain.

And the sun beats on my cheek, the climb, infested with gravel - smothered in dirt

A shout from above says looking down is only your perspective, a fools trick to our mind.

A shout in exclamation marks.

Running away from the echo of the past.
Sweat dripping, in splatters like drops - each drop a thought

Floating in space and time - your frustration wound up in a second.
Where does it drop?

A climb, claw - tear..... running into the mountain.
To fight against the battle
That stays quietly, patiently above you.

Connection beyond all belief. Connection between two.
If only.

Deep connection, where tether strings are tied, no matter how far - there is a floating connection.
And I yearn for it.
The connection, one where I fall, one where I fall aimlessly into reciprocation.

And I am always closing every door.
No one sees the mirrors like I do. And if they stand behind me - I crack the mirror, or, I will fog the mirror, I will stand far away....
With my entire heart, my entire being - one day - I held out a single, violently shaking finger (the only part of my body reaching out.)
The only part asking for help, love, acceptance.
The only piece of flesh that I will reveal.
But, I tend to clench my fists.

And the connection between anyone is never as strong as I hoped, as I wanted, as I....
I stand in the darkest of corners.
Hearing my own breathe every once in a while.
My heart beat, loud, my stinging chest, quivers at their intertwining connections.
They......

And I wish I could connect, but fear keeps my mouth empty
My mind's sparks are dim - I keep the light low.

But their roaring flames, brilliant, luminescent - it's growing.
Shining through a prism.
Shining daylight - glorious to all with wide eyes

and I.... wish, they knew I had a finger to spare in their conversation.
But the corner, is comfort.
The corner is the protection against loss. The corner never gains or loses. And that is where I will remain.

Do they know?

When you are so afraid of vulnerability, openness, trying to please others, you simply stay in your spot and never move.

The word itself
The word itself
The word is lost,
And I am
Lost
In its shadow, its very being.

On, the, word - open
The word itself
The word I shreek from
I want to stay from....

The very word, the word that I will never be close to, the word,

Intamate

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