Hands

hourglass, crystal ball, scythe, neat-tucked bed, dusty corners, spiderwebs, time-greyed armoire, rusty crib, ancient toys the stuff of nightmares, ceiling collapsing beneath a weighty loneliness.

have you found what beauty is for?

Beauty is beyond me, its outer gardens waft to me. You've seen the whole of it: the love, the new words and senses, the pinched and kneaded time, bleeding colors spinning rainbows into auroral webs. It's in your eyes, face, rhythm and tempo. What do the lines in my hands say? Do they frown or smile pleasantly? Do they beggar me with wisdom, or silent, plaintive, whisper I've made mistakes - too many. A ledger of scarlet, written in palm cuneiform, a pictograph of questions, unclasped, etched into flesh.  Thumb isolated, a border of sharp fissures, fault lines - my fault?  Large 'A' on each hand, an 'l' following? Sacred symbol lines?

It is not for all, every experience.  My hands tell stories I cannot hear.

listen: the swan song sings for me - this is beauty, truth, beauty

I slept, and woke on a snowflake, just me and a giant snake, shivering with cold. Gazing into each others eyes, must we put our selves aside and cuddle close? I wrapped my arms about him, he around me, and we shivered together atop our snowflake eternity, the worldscape beneath of clouds, aurora, fields and forests. But the snake loved too much, or nature prevailed, and constricted - I could not breathe. But warm, warm, it's better this way, coiled not cold.

black glass ponds are not mirrors, but windows. What do you see? Is it love, or sorrow?

Sorrow, the crow, and memory - or thought? Dusty roads barefoot glow beneath yellowed-paper moon, glitter-black dress of twilight - is it dark in a phoenix egg? Is it this that drives the fight for freedom? Or because inside, without room, the song of life is strangled, muffled?

before you blink, as you smile,what gift to you who loves no gifts? It beats sola para ti, and it's glass running through my veins, and sand, will you have my hand if I give it? no. take this empty box, it's mine, it holds my everything. is it mercy or grace I need more? 

have you found everything without me

to guide you

i'd give my blessing but i misplaced it with my heart-

felt hopes and dreams of warmer things, what everyone

else just forgets - it's the best, the only, night of my life

let me have it with all my dreams intact

these lines on my hands untouched

such stories 

~in memory of..~

where prayers were not enough to save us the sorrow of your passing.