Life is something that can never -truly- be caged and bottled.
Something holding no familiar territory, yet it can be sold in seconds, with just a glance.
—–>
… Thoughts trickling towards a stream of pastimes [past times] and anxieties…
… Pours out into an open surface of actions paired with despair…
The scene is set among characters who seem to each play a vital role,
but actions turn to moments,
and moments turn to memories—
folding and tracing regrets in your palm,
feeling and caressing the storm before the calm.
Creating new molecules,
by means of each breath of each day,
becoming New Psalms,
upon every self-crystallizing mistake.
Leading the follow,
with a face set in stone,
blossoming as a shroud,
with the forever unknown.
Hearing each sound above the Moma’s dancefloor,
re-living each juncture
through open eyes
described as doors.
Oh, Sweet and Joyous Butterfly!
Please, prepare me
for the gift of
my own wingset,
today and everyday,
teach me
to let living
be my effect.
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