There is no release from sorrow as I cry. Breaking the treaty of silence of the Ancient grieving. Antilight remains a dark secret in the night garden.
Her words had The sweetness of Honey that only Wild bees can make .
I often call on god to explain but , I get no answers. He bellows a silence that I think comes far too easily. I receive abundant nothingness, as it is a hard god that dried up my prayers and let me move on to where my rivers run deep with drown desire.
I grew up in a house painted the color of a Bakery . On a street named after the town that Bakery is in .
I feel myself drawn back to the beginnings catching Salamanders , Tadpoles and barefoot Girls hearts . Pepe barked and baseballs flew As the wild Bees made Honey.
Now I live in a house the colors of the Bakery in reverse . I pick up leaves and make tracks in the snow shaped like peace signs . And I search for that elusive wild Honey.
Willow barks and memories fly . I find my comfort in my realm of circles . Until the Universe finds me and calls me Home.