Soft in Mine

Golden shades of day flutter in the arms of pine and oak. A bee throws itself against what looks like freedom, but instead remains trapped. Or is it a house fly? All I know for sure is that today is ending. Please be quiet. Living is patient work, I've decided. The person I want to be sits beyond, shaking. For what purpose is life, Teacher? A boy the same age as my son died today, and his sister vomits in grief behind the wheel. The path has been given, yet I see death. I witness the watchful land of splintered men.

It's not possible to speak of love anymore. There is only the moon with its lost appetite, waiting for the cycles to change.

I hear you asking about what I mean. I'm saying that it is foolish to announce life and death and love and grief and hope. It only leads to suffering. My son's hand, soft in mine, will only lead to bloodletting; tucking my daughter's hair behind her ear is the same as throwing dirt onto a rose-colored casket.

The freedom to be free gets us no closer to the place we already are. And the heaviest chain of all is the one that insinuates that I am so much more than this.

so and yet a deepening sigh I let it be