She fled her body, to where the poets fly.
Her heart lived in that place,
an angel by night light.
There were feathers on the wind of day,
and music, like a lovers kiss, drifting.
Oh, how she loved, there.
Oh, how she loved.
And how she missed that beautiful whisper
when down to earth
she fell.
Always remember your softness.
Always remember to wrap your gifts
and hand them to the world, carefully.
For, my dear, my darling
you.
Only you
can paint the world
the colour of your dreams.
Go on, sweet bloggy friends.
Catch your butterfly.
xx Brooke
I have seen myself in the world around me.
In the people, things and places I love.
In the people, things and places I hate.
In the people, things and places I care only slightly for.
I block myself from myself when I am afraid.
When love is too much, too broken or not enough.
When dreams meet reality and reality must win, for the greater good.
I block myself from myself because I don’t know who I am.
And I think I should.
Because others do.
I should, too.
And so it is I unzip my skin and let it all fall down around me.
The aching of lost dreams.
The stinging hope for dreams to come.
They eat my soul, I hold them close.
I am meeting myself.
I am losing (and missing) myself at the very same time.
If sleep could touch my cheek,
I would ask for her slender hand
a thousand times.
If sleep did fall upon me now,
I dare not wake.
No.
I dare…not…
I just watched Lord of the rings, again;
I’m certain I’ve missed my calling as an Elf.
Twirling leaves, swaying, falling.
Flowing gowns, floating on air.
Softness.
Romance.
Light and trees.
I’m certain I’ve missed my calling as an Elf.
Oh well.
There’s always next time.
It would be okay,
I believe,
If you were to make a wish
and put it in your pocket.
It would be okay,
especially so,
if the wish was sweet.
For a wish made carefully
is often much sweeter
if forgotten
(in a pocket)
and found
somewhere along the drifting line
of life.
Somewhere lovely,
of course.
Somewhere really quite lovely,
I would think.
Somewhere between the quiet
and the haze, I go
to sit for a while.
Somewhere
between the quiet
and the haze.
And you might ask me
what I hope to find there.
You might ask me if it’s true.
That the haze shimmers like a thousand suns,
and the quiet melts like vanilla cream
on apple pie, oh, sweet love.
I would tell you
you must seek for yourself
the whispers, true.
Somewhere between the quiet and the haze
you must go.
Ah, the loveliness.
There it is again.
As smooth as the drifting river,
as quiet as the song of a mother
to the sky.
Lovely loveliness.
The sweetest of all the dreams.
The possibilities are endless.
The possibilities
are
endless.
Dare to look.
Dare to see.
The lonely soul
is a beauty.
She is quiet,
so quiet
as she whispers her way
through the noise,
through the dark,
through the rain.
Sing a sweet song to her.
Call to her
and she shall hand you
a soft and thoughtful dream.
brooke-cutler.com 