In a world of fire, I am the stream.
Peace.
My heart wants nothing more, my soul wants nothing less.
I am tired.
So tired of the saddest story: well meaning fighters, fighting for good, creating the worst kind of bad.
I am tired.
Of the battle.
I do not need you to fight for me,
and they do not need you to fight for them
because those of us who have been broken are the wisest of souls.
We do not need to be saved.
We need peace.
We all need
peace.
War is what we have.
For now.
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.
I have spent so much time
searching for the next step,
and yet
the next step
has always been taken.
With no need to search.
How lovely.
The wind of peace.
Here.
Now.
My
how lovely.
Somewhere in the clouds
is where you will find me.
Am I broken,
or am I just me?
Floating,
somewhere beyond the day.
Floating,
not quite flying away.
As humanity goes,
I am far from normal,
and yet I’d not trade a cloud
for a rock, and a chance to be
normal.
What is normal?
What is this broken world
asking me to be?
The possibilities are endless.
The possibilities
are
endless.
Dare to look.
Dare to see.
It seems simple.
To live
as I am
always.
It seems simple.
To live.
This silence
is the cloud I fall upon
when I don’t know where to fly.
How beautiful
just to float.
Here.
Now.
Eternally.
Sometimes
I feel five.
Like the world is big
and I am small.
And there are kids all around
bigger than me,
louder,
scarier,
bolder than this softness
that folds me
like tissue.
(No one else folds like tissue.
Just me.)
The softness of me at five
lingers;
a scent
(like lavender)
on the breeze
of my soul.
The softness of me.
The softness of me.
It smells like a roast
but it feels like a story
of love,
of a garden,
and of home.
