Flamingo Pleas on Broken Knees

In the breathless blue morning, a train sighs in legato notes. The stillness breeds a sense of hyperawareness worthy of rabbit sneezes and feathers falling. Can hating oneself be the same as loving – a variation from the neutral nothing that is universal and all? The dark spiral breaks the heart in the same emotional vibration as joy. Barriers subservient to a force more energetic than peace. More meddlesome. Sure, lessons and all. But how painful the ice is when kneeling on broken knees!

The ego alights as a source of heat, always building on the coldest morning, the moment before drowning in my hypothermic lake. Illusion as survival then? My bare feet recoil from the gelid bedroom floor but eventually they shuffle a path into morning. There does come a point when the eyes swell over and the tear ducts can produce nothing. The mirror and camera lenses do not lie.

If not the sea, then a cabin warmed by cut logs and stoked fire. Coffee. Blankets. The Authors of my life. Perhaps it is time to go.

Today though, to dress the sorrow with earrings and scarves. Jeans and blackness. Dawn, please be flamingo silk beckoning the dear girl forward one more day.