Damnit YHWH,
Nothing is solid and much is wobbling around my finger tips.
I just said good bye to my music, my passions, all the pieces of my heart.
The Empire is coming swiftly, back to sweep me off my feet and take me to the heights of the city.
Driving my beat up black Yamaha scooter, with red racing flames and a busted head light and muffled whimpering horn. Rolled away from Ford Ct. and the mass of smiles and smoke and asphalt wetted with spilled drinks and littered with red cups. The last of social events I'll attend. The boys, those beloved rascals, harassed me as I tried to leave. One jumped on after another, planted a kiss on my cheek, and once on my lips. And my Venezuelan soulmate, I watched her grow smaller in my mirrors.
Summers are hot and sticky, but then it's the early morning hours and I've got six miles of two lane highway to cover. The air is damp and chilled, and my thin silk shirt does little. I'm tensed up, huddled over my handle bars, gritting teeth and squinting into the insect bloated air. I'm chilled straight through my muscles now, and the earth feels clammy and I don't want to touch it. My clothes are strewn about my room, my raspberry red and orange and bright teen girl room, and I don't want to pack them. And I don't want to sleep. And I don't want to say good bye or leave or face the fury of the coming months.
Damnit YHWH,
when do I stop growing and leaving and beeping farewell on the Yamaha.
The Empire is waiting for me to come back to her, such a fickle lover. She is not so sweet or quiet or gentle as my lady, Alabama. She's fierce and strong and hard, moves so fast and loves so loudly. But I go back to her, always. I go back to her.
Damnit YHWH,
I'm so drunk on your love I can't be mad at you. I see you toss the laso around the moon and bring her to me, and I see you toss me on a plane and toss me toward the North. You're one of those crazy foolish lovers, you'll stop at nothing to prove your love. You've one upped all my other courters, I face it. You've won. I'm sliding my fingers around yours and we're going to walk slowly now, toward change and madness and fury and growth. But I trust you, I'm mad for you, have no sense left in me. It's all heart from here on out, and you own that now. I'm crazy about you, YESHUA. We're going to be together, be together, be together from here on out. Empire or Alabama or somewhere in the great north wet. We're in this together, I swear.
Sunday, May 31, 2009
Saturday, May 30, 2009
Now here is my South.
Fred's feed n' seed,
owned and sat in by Fred for forty two years
and counting,
and he's got a beard like no other, and fingers that pluck strings and pull them
and woo them into sweet sweet melodies.
but tonight the barn was filled with a hundred slurring Southerners
dancing their bare feet on the dirt padded floor to the Blue Mountain stringband.
i danced with strange old men, with white beards and pony tails down to their knees.
the place was full of sweat, and plaid, and smoke, and beer
and sweet sweet melodies.
night of fury and dancing and pipe smoking and some marlboros
and ohh i don't like marlboros
but i do like Uncle Jem, who smokes two packs a day
and is a lesbian trapped in a man's body, so he says.
none sense and dancing and smiles across the room, and harmonicas and banjos
and fiddles and mandolins,
and steel drums and old gibsons
and screen prints and oil paintings
and old saddles and the smell of old dust and wood.
sweet summer air, wisteria and honey suckle
blooming
and we even fried kudzu and ate it
and old faces and old bodies
and newer shoes and less than classy ladies
alabama may not be the city, but i danced with hundreds
in a bar full of fiends and characters and mostly good ole boys
and i could never be prouder to claim this as my own.
Fred hugged and kissed me on the cheek tonight as i left, all 67 years and ten inch beard of him.
Fred's feed n' seed,
owned and sat in by Fred for forty two years
and counting,
and he's got a beard like no other, and fingers that pluck strings and pull them
and woo them into sweet sweet melodies.
but tonight the barn was filled with a hundred slurring Southerners
dancing their bare feet on the dirt padded floor to the Blue Mountain stringband.
i danced with strange old men, with white beards and pony tails down to their knees.
the place was full of sweat, and plaid, and smoke, and beer
and sweet sweet melodies.
night of fury and dancing and pipe smoking and some marlboros
and ohh i don't like marlboros
but i do like Uncle Jem, who smokes two packs a day
and is a lesbian trapped in a man's body, so he says.
none sense and dancing and smiles across the room, and harmonicas and banjos
and fiddles and mandolins,
and steel drums and old gibsons
and screen prints and oil paintings
and old saddles and the smell of old dust and wood.
sweet summer air, wisteria and honey suckle
blooming
and we even fried kudzu and ate it
and old faces and old bodies
and newer shoes and less than classy ladies
alabama may not be the city, but i danced with hundreds
in a bar full of fiends and characters and mostly good ole boys
and i could never be prouder to claim this as my own.
Fred hugged and kissed me on the cheek tonight as i left, all 67 years and ten inch beard of him.
Thursday, May 28, 2009
Stomach just dropped at the notion that I'm leaving again. I don't know why this goodbye is going to be so much harder than the last. I see some people and their smiles make me ache. Today was a perfect day.
6 am swimming, riding my thin withered friend, reading Thomas Wolfe, writing letters, drinking chai, smoking my pipe, swimming in the river with rope swings again, driving around town smoking out the windows, napping with good friends on wide couches, boxed wine, talking, laughing, crying, and even singing karaoke, well it makes it damned hard to leave.
It's foggy in the mornings here, and I think the green might even hint of Ireland. And then the sun comes with the breeze and by noon it's hot and sticky. Then the summer rains monsoon for an hour, quieting the already meek town into a wet haze. And then the humidity lifts and the sun shines and the breeze flows and I breathe sweet southern air.
Here, I talk gardening and soil. And YHWH with his green thumb and my aching muscles and tanning arms. YHWH, if you want, if you want , I'd stay here. I'm torn a hundred different ways, I'm stretched and weary. I hugged and didn't want to let go, wouldn't have if Time didn't move so impatiently. It hurts, it hurts. Today hurts, I don't want to grow anymore. I don't want to say good bye anymore.
And always I think of you.
6 am swimming, riding my thin withered friend, reading Thomas Wolfe, writing letters, drinking chai, smoking my pipe, swimming in the river with rope swings again, driving around town smoking out the windows, napping with good friends on wide couches, boxed wine, talking, laughing, crying, and even singing karaoke, well it makes it damned hard to leave.
It's foggy in the mornings here, and I think the green might even hint of Ireland. And then the sun comes with the breeze and by noon it's hot and sticky. Then the summer rains monsoon for an hour, quieting the already meek town into a wet haze. And then the humidity lifts and the sun shines and the breeze flows and I breathe sweet southern air.
Here, I talk gardening and soil. And YHWH with his green thumb and my aching muscles and tanning arms. YHWH, if you want, if you want , I'd stay here. I'm torn a hundred different ways, I'm stretched and weary. I hugged and didn't want to let go, wouldn't have if Time didn't move so impatiently. It hurts, it hurts. Today hurts, I don't want to grow anymore. I don't want to say good bye anymore.
And always I think of you.
Tuesday, May 26, 2009
deep magic, old rope
We stretched our limbs less limber than childhood and scraped our knees and forearms with grainy black tar mud. And we climbed the roots of a washed out hill, crowned by the oak tree. The faithful oak tree, who lends his boughs for the youth evermore.
Muddy river, rising high above the watermarks on the banks. It's been raining for days and the earth is soaked and bloated. Climb up the mud bank, look up the big oak, see the old rope.
And I was twelve again. On the river with the same boy and his sister. We were trembling with excitement, feeling the nervousness wind around our stomachs, flow down our legs to our toes and through our lungs to our fingertips and tingling lips.
Stand on the lip of the last root, hold the knot of the rope, take a startling breath as keen as a newborn's, close your eyes tight tight tighter than the blind man, and let go. Not of the rope but of the earth, forget about her. Leave her, we're not bound to her forever. For three seconds we can forget our feet must be rooted solid, and bring our heads much closer to the clouds. The great oak creaked and sighed as I flew from her roots and toward the sky that she reaches for. Like a fisheye, I watched the ground then the water then the trees and the heavens.
And then you let go of the rope. There is nothing holding you to the hard ground or keeping you from the everlasting sky. Flying, my eyes are open now. Rushing up and then into the great muddy bath below. Hit the surface so hard my lungs rang, and swallowed great orange river water. Knees sunk and hit the bottom of the river bed, felt the rocks and the twelve inches of rotting mud. Let my toes feel all the fish shit and river banks washed from miles and miles before down into this bend in the river, by the great oak.
Burst to the surface, tasting whatever the water had tossed into my mouth. Looked back at the boy and his sister and my best friend. Their smiles told me I'd done all right, had flown as every twenty year old that can never die should. I'm twenty, and I'm not old at all. My heart forgot to walk with my body, and is still playing in the mud at twelve. Found the deep black mud in the shallows and painted the last frontiers on earth. A canvas full of soft white flesh and now covered with hard black clay.
The mud is magic, the oak is ancient, the river is changing. The flying is eternal and I am twenty and I can never be old.
Muddy river, rising high above the watermarks on the banks. It's been raining for days and the earth is soaked and bloated. Climb up the mud bank, look up the big oak, see the old rope.
And I was twelve again. On the river with the same boy and his sister. We were trembling with excitement, feeling the nervousness wind around our stomachs, flow down our legs to our toes and through our lungs to our fingertips and tingling lips.
Stand on the lip of the last root, hold the knot of the rope, take a startling breath as keen as a newborn's, close your eyes tight tight tighter than the blind man, and let go. Not of the rope but of the earth, forget about her. Leave her, we're not bound to her forever. For three seconds we can forget our feet must be rooted solid, and bring our heads much closer to the clouds. The great oak creaked and sighed as I flew from her roots and toward the sky that she reaches for. Like a fisheye, I watched the ground then the water then the trees and the heavens.
And then you let go of the rope. There is nothing holding you to the hard ground or keeping you from the everlasting sky. Flying, my eyes are open now. Rushing up and then into the great muddy bath below. Hit the surface so hard my lungs rang, and swallowed great orange river water. Knees sunk and hit the bottom of the river bed, felt the rocks and the twelve inches of rotting mud. Let my toes feel all the fish shit and river banks washed from miles and miles before down into this bend in the river, by the great oak.
Burst to the surface, tasting whatever the water had tossed into my mouth. Looked back at the boy and his sister and my best friend. Their smiles told me I'd done all right, had flown as every twenty year old that can never die should. I'm twenty, and I'm not old at all. My heart forgot to walk with my body, and is still playing in the mud at twelve. Found the deep black mud in the shallows and painted the last frontiers on earth. A canvas full of soft white flesh and now covered with hard black clay.
The mud is magic, the oak is ancient, the river is changing. The flying is eternal and I am twenty and I can never be old.
Saturday, May 23, 2009
Stumbling around, groping for solid ground. Friend, who are you?
They strike me when I least expect it. I sat around tonight with four of the most bizarre and beloved boys in my life. Two straightedge and bitter, two full of liquor and love. Oh what a group they make. How is it that these hearts are full of life's bitter shit and not an ounce of Christ's grace, and yet they love more genuinely and loyally than most?
They're playing beer pong in the kitchen and I'm eating taco bell and laughing til my cheeks burn from grinning and my sides ache. They've been around for years, always the same love. They'd fight for me, they already have.
How is it, amidst these silly profane boys do I know I am loved so clearly, that I have never once doubted it. I can walk through their door any hour, be welcomed with Supersmash brothers and a place to crash.
Brings an aching joy, remembering so many nights and so many trips to who knows where and shows full of breakdowns and adolescent tomfoolery. We grew up together, the group that was once twenty strong has split in twenty different directions. Few left in Auburn, fewer still less than enemies. But these at least, these are still here. These are the strange friends, that somehow, I know are going to be here when I'm a crazy old cat lady.
They strike me when I least expect it. I sat around tonight with four of the most bizarre and beloved boys in my life. Two straightedge and bitter, two full of liquor and love. Oh what a group they make. How is it that these hearts are full of life's bitter shit and not an ounce of Christ's grace, and yet they love more genuinely and loyally than most?
They're playing beer pong in the kitchen and I'm eating taco bell and laughing til my cheeks burn from grinning and my sides ache. They've been around for years, always the same love. They'd fight for me, they already have.
How is it, amidst these silly profane boys do I know I am loved so clearly, that I have never once doubted it. I can walk through their door any hour, be welcomed with Supersmash brothers and a place to crash.
Brings an aching joy, remembering so many nights and so many trips to who knows where and shows full of breakdowns and adolescent tomfoolery. We grew up together, the group that was once twenty strong has split in twenty different directions. Few left in Auburn, fewer still less than enemies. But these at least, these are still here. These are the strange friends, that somehow, I know are going to be here when I'm a crazy old cat lady.
Thursday, May 21, 2009
ra
This is going on my body rather soon. Alabama has slowed my soul, I'm breathing deep and not gasping for air anymore. The green is seeping into me. I've been barefoot for days, soaking in the red clay and black soil.
And the three of us, we giggled. And pranced around the pool in anticipation. The air was damp and a little misty. We flip the flood light off, and the moon glowed through the mess of clouds weakly. One, two, three.
Pull the dress over my head, unsnap the bra and fling it aside. Toss under wear aside and stand breathless.
One, twoJUMP.
We're in, cold rush between my toes and around my body. Skinny dipping, seventh grade seems fresh again. Floating, bare bottoms up, we can't stop laughing or treading.
I can hear the crickets, and the frogs. They're singing about us. The lake isn't too far away. Just down the path and off the dock. I run and they follow and we're alive in the noises of the night. Splashing into the green hued lake, feeling fish nibble our leg hairs and the mud sink in around our toes.
The night was endless, so was our youth. We curled up in towels on the dock, remembering first kisses and unrequited love. Fell asleep in the endless night, woken by the everlasting sun. Warming my freckles and their tans. Hot shower, hotter coffee. Eggs sunny side up and fresh faces with bare lashes, callousing clay stained toes bare from shoes for today and tomorrow and that's forever as far as I'm concerned.
Breathe in sun, breathe out honey suckle sweet breath. I'm alive I'm alive I'm alive.
Time enough to sleep and even dream. Days long enough to wake up early and go to bed late. I forget about clocks ticking and deadlines and green paper hurting hearts. We're all alive here, feeling the fury of our youth. Twenty years full of foolishness and unhinged joy. Here, I'm not all grown up, and I'm here forever, or at least until tomorrow. But that's forever.
Tuesday, May 19, 2009
I remember this.
Played over and over again and again. I'm not going to lose this time. I remember this. You talk and hold my hand, trace your finger softly behind my ear, murmur things like beautiful and sultry, and pull me along toward your gaping hole of a heart. And I follow where I'm led, holding tight to the pretty words and hand around my waist. And then you leave and I am soft and quiet and desperate and warm tears and deep aches.
But I remember this.
And I'm white hot steel this time. I'm loud and full of fury. I'm sharp and I'm on top. Winning, winning, winning. Never stepping an inch closer to sweet spoken promises. I won't lose this time. Fury is choking me, letting hot tears run down my face twisted into fight.
I remember this.
We both walk away bleeding.
Played over and over again and again. I'm not going to lose this time. I remember this. You talk and hold my hand, trace your finger softly behind my ear, murmur things like beautiful and sultry, and pull me along toward your gaping hole of a heart. And I follow where I'm led, holding tight to the pretty words and hand around my waist. And then you leave and I am soft and quiet and desperate and warm tears and deep aches.
But I remember this.
And I'm white hot steel this time. I'm loud and full of fury. I'm sharp and I'm on top. Winning, winning, winning. Never stepping an inch closer to sweet spoken promises. I won't lose this time. Fury is choking me, letting hot tears run down my face twisted into fight.
I remember this.
We both walk away bleeding.
Monday, May 18, 2009
i have a thousand lovers in a hundred different cities
strangers that have met my eyes and nothing more
and we are in love in a thousand different places
running from the fury our of misguided intentions
but the army couldn't take you far enough away
and we are tangled in a story
not fit for the silver screen
you've held more than my gaze
know more than my face,
i didn't run when i should have
and now i can breath out
the taste of you muddled
with turkish silver and sweet cabernot
to you i am
the siren, to me you are addicted
to you i am beautiful
to me, i am willing
closer to something real in the worst of times
in the worst of places
we are in love in a thousand places.
i meant to run away, i had every intention to. but the minutes turned to hours, to days to eternities on this everlasting earth.
fury swept us into her bed
and we fought to stay away from tangled love
and fury was this everlasting earth, and we caught her running toward wide scripted time, past hours and days and months and lives into forevers, spreading my reason into something terrifying and saturated and drunk from your breath
oh, the stories we find ourselves in
this one won't be fit for the silver screen,
but for the secret places and the unlined pages
full of loose ink and deep ash
that is where our story goes
strangers that have met my eyes and nothing more
and we are in love in a thousand different places
running from the fury our of misguided intentions
but the army couldn't take you far enough away
and we are tangled in a story
not fit for the silver screen
you've held more than my gaze
know more than my face,
i didn't run when i should have
and now i can breath out
the taste of you muddled
with turkish silver and sweet cabernot
to you i am
the siren, to me you are addicted
to you i am beautiful
to me, i am willing
closer to something real in the worst of times
in the worst of places
we are in love in a thousand places.
i meant to run away, i had every intention to. but the minutes turned to hours, to days to eternities on this everlasting earth.
fury swept us into her bed
and we fought to stay away from tangled love
and fury was this everlasting earth, and we caught her running toward wide scripted time, past hours and days and months and lives into forevers, spreading my reason into something terrifying and saturated and drunk from your breath
oh, the stories we find ourselves in
this one won't be fit for the silver screen,
but for the secret places and the unlined pages
full of loose ink and deep ash
that is where our story goes
Monday, May 11, 2009
new beginnings. the everlasting earth.
thomas wolfe and so so much learning.
soaking in reality, the fury of my soul. the fury of my passions that is realized in the quiet and the still moments of solitude.
travel, to watch and to realize the souls of people, what an incredible and beautiful manifestation of what the soul is.
i'm glad i got to experience it.
such limber comings and wandering desires, yet you know me. yet you use me.
we hardly understand the words that come from each other's mouths', yet we know each other. and though i do not know why you are here or what purpose you serve, you edify yeshua and you are the maker and lover of the bizarre and southern soul that i possess.
you are good, and your mercies endure forever.
yhwh, you are truth and that is what is dying for.
i speak nonsense, yet i testify to truth, what late nights are these and inept discoveries of the soul.
you are the everlasting earth and undying soul of my being that thirsts for more of you, that thirsts for truth, that longs for peace, that lives for genuity.
my God, you are such a receiver of the passions, of where i fail, of all that i have run from you and cast you aside. even you are with me always, even til the end of the age.
yeshua, you are my redeemer .
humbly i seek you
longingly i feed from you
always i trust you
for you are YHWH of our passions, commander of the depths of my heart.
thomas wolfe and so so much learning.
soaking in reality, the fury of my soul. the fury of my passions that is realized in the quiet and the still moments of solitude.
travel, to watch and to realize the souls of people, what an incredible and beautiful manifestation of what the soul is.
i'm glad i got to experience it.
such limber comings and wandering desires, yet you know me. yet you use me.
we hardly understand the words that come from each other's mouths', yet we know each other. and though i do not know why you are here or what purpose you serve, you edify yeshua and you are the maker and lover of the bizarre and southern soul that i possess.
you are good, and your mercies endure forever.
yhwh, you are truth and that is what is dying for.
i speak nonsense, yet i testify to truth, what late nights are these and inept discoveries of the soul.
you are the everlasting earth and undying soul of my being that thirsts for more of you, that thirsts for truth, that longs for peace, that lives for genuity.
my God, you are such a receiver of the passions, of where i fail, of all that i have run from you and cast you aside. even you are with me always, even til the end of the age.
yeshua, you are my redeemer .
humbly i seek you
longingly i feed from you
always i trust you
for you are YHWH of our passions, commander of the depths of my heart.
Thursday, May 7, 2009
In four days, I'll be here.
And soon after I'll make memories like I remember liking to. I won't be a failure and I won't be forgotten. I'm ready for sweet southern comfort, for the arms that have always held me, for the voices that speak in love. I need to melt into them. Aching, so much aching. Skint knees, swollen lip, rust smeared across the pictures we took.
Tuesday, May 5, 2009
And I tell you, things wrap around my legs and pull them out from me.
My you are a slippery one dear Hashem. You are a funny one, but I'm afraid your humor is going to have the same bite that mine does. For once I'm hoping against jokes.
My you are a strange one, my love.
He says he wants to take me out on a date, like a lady. I'm not sure if I'm a lady or if I remember what a date is,
but I suppose I'll see you Thursday.
That is the most absurd thing I've ever heard. If he shows up with flowers I'm packing up and moving to the bird house.
My you are a slippery one dear Hashem. You are a funny one, but I'm afraid your humor is going to have the same bite that mine does. For once I'm hoping against jokes.
My you are a strange one, my love.
He says he wants to take me out on a date, like a lady. I'm not sure if I'm a lady or if I remember what a date is,
but I suppose I'll see you Thursday.
That is the most absurd thing I've ever heard. If he shows up with flowers I'm packing up and moving to the bird house.
Sunday, May 3, 2009
oh new lover!
oh this is going to be glorious
we're going to run til we're sleepy and dream until we can't stand to close our eyes
this is going to build build build into the greatest tree house you've climbed to
or made secret pacts signed with eyes closed blood pricked fingers
we'll hide in our secret places
and never let the world touch what you and i have
we'll cover our passion so that no one will steal you from me
no? but i want to be with you, in the deep waters
and find deep magic with you, and hold tightly to you, hide my face in you
but the pact wasn't secret, i saw the heavens ache when your blood spilled eyes open
our love can't be secret anymore
oh it can't.
we've got to be together, you and i.
fruit in the intimacy of you and i.
but i'm terrified to let you in me, see the bare nakedness of me.
it's going to be ugly and painful and i've never even seen what you will.
hakkadosh, how can i let you see me, hold my flesh smeared with marks from other lovers?
you're not going to run away? sneak away in the early morning before i wake?
you'll be there, still holding me when the sun comes?
i am.
are you going to be different, my love, than the promises that failed?
are you going to wander with me and not away?
i am.
oh yeshua,
we'll make breakfast then and make plans
for the rest of our lives
we're going to prepare for the feast,
but before that the winding race
you are.
oh this is going to be glorious
we're going to run til we're sleepy and dream until we can't stand to close our eyes
this is going to build build build into the greatest tree house you've climbed to
or made secret pacts signed with eyes closed blood pricked fingers
we'll hide in our secret places
and never let the world touch what you and i have
we'll cover our passion so that no one will steal you from me
no? but i want to be with you, in the deep waters
and find deep magic with you, and hold tightly to you, hide my face in you
but the pact wasn't secret, i saw the heavens ache when your blood spilled eyes open
our love can't be secret anymore
oh it can't.
we've got to be together, you and i.
fruit in the intimacy of you and i.
but i'm terrified to let you in me, see the bare nakedness of me.
it's going to be ugly and painful and i've never even seen what you will.
hakkadosh, how can i let you see me, hold my flesh smeared with marks from other lovers?
you're not going to run away? sneak away in the early morning before i wake?
you'll be there, still holding me when the sun comes?
i am.
are you going to be different, my love, than the promises that failed?
are you going to wander with me and not away?
i am.
oh yeshua,
we'll make breakfast then and make plans
for the rest of our lives
we're going to prepare for the feast,
but before that the winding race
you are.
Saturday, May 2, 2009
deep magic
This is the garden I found that breathed life into this concrete city of mine. I was glad to find her. She reminded me of the old friend I left outside of the city. She reminded me of the garden we're going to find.
I'm ready for sweet smelling flowers, honey suckles to wrap myself in. Walker, my darling lean withered friend. Smooth back and twisted forelock. I will fall on your back and ride until our sweat runs together. We'll explore the red clay of Alabama again, find buck eyes shined and pocket them. Bring apples and peanut butter for the both of us. Play in the Saugahatchee creek, have oat bran and honey with Fred at his Feed n' Seed. Alabama air is running through my lungs already. Hashem's mystery is waking up. My fingertips remember their blackberry stains, my toes have not forgotten their rusty clay stained hue, and my curls are begging to hold onto soggy afternoon air.
I'll take you to Jerusalem one day, we'll canter past the wall and kneel before the hill. Eat manderins where they were first rooted and travel with your old brothers to the tents of the people who never forgot how majestic you are. The bedouins, bringing us in for goat milked chai and rest for your sand worn hooves. The old air, thick with Hashem's magic, will bring out your words and we'll talk for days on our crusade in the first earth. Find the waters that ran deep and gurgled through the dry desert for Moses. We'll be drunk on the Spirit of that water and remember our Names, remember what we were made for, and wander closer to kingdom, closer to deep magic, closer to the way things always were, and we'll find the garden.
Friday, May 1, 2009
Who are you to me, my heart has wandered too far looking for yours. I care, and I can taste the bitter remnant of the last time I cared when I swallow. I'm not sure that I want to go there again. I'm not sure that I have a choice. I could hold your heart and peel back every smear against it. I could pull out the crooked words that it believed and the false intentions it received. I could look at it all and not shudder, I'm not afraid to get my hands dirty.
I could help hold the bags you carry, and help you to drop them on the side of the road. So we could be two wanderers traveling light, not weighed down.
I could help hold the bags you carry, and help you to drop them on the side of the road. So we could be two wanderers traveling light, not weighed down.
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