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Nov 2018
You have come out less who you are. You have given up on your tiny screen, maybe for that chance at your mother’s arms. Maybe that’s me, or maybe we’re both a little far away from knowing who you are: a giant queen of ease visiting strangers hearts. We know things, but to hear ourselves speak we’d need to scream
Out louder than the Red Spot afar. It was a tiny joy to feel, to feel you’d chosen me to shepherd us through the stars. This map worn with your grief leads to a hemlock branch strung hammock where I imagine laying in today’s grand autumnal festivities.
In a place where pain and disease run off together, and don’t stop to think where you and I might be.

In this world where we are
In this world where they gave you a chance
At giving up on who you were.

We were sitting out beside the sea, given a spot of almond milk to go with our tea, it was pouring art and raining beliefs, it had finally given you a chance to breathe, a child free to live without despair’s feral fiends.

Twirling, through verdant orchards caught by envies gleaned by greens’ motif.

This is not the place where I died
But rather the place I learned to stop worrying and learned to love my life.
Martin Narrod
Written by
Martin Narrod  33/M/CA
(33/M/CA)   
782
 
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