When was the last time I felt a raving hunger for life? When had I but an eternity in moments, on the edge of something vastly different?
How was it me and not you who staked her soul high on rolling hills of green, took long draughts to savour, to condense the weight of the world into one precious drink,
cup the shortest days in her palm and release them, for her thoughts to balloon into the wild?
The delectable now— ripe as berries for plucking in winter, and all things, like music must peter into silence.
So I suppose my question to you is not concerned with the stack of newly-minted green in your pocket, nor the fleet of shiny cars, but your pure self, simply being. It’s prodding the heart, a tiny critter fluttering with wings, wondering:
when will you ever get a second chance at this— all this storm and inexplicable happiness—
or will you go hunting for things, whirling at mere traces of power in your name—
or will you turn around only to find a life or a lie, staring back wide-eyed in endless shame?