The leaf is caught on the tide of the sky, dashed against a sea of green
treetops, lost amid these streets and fields. I count the hours, I
count the miles, the dull report of the mystery you seem to cherish
most. The light that clings, the light that clashes, the light that
rises from somewhere within. Your eyes aglow with that hidden fire,
burning away my reasons and my will. The secrets you keep so you know
how this all ends.
The years steal by with swift abandon. The
days they linger like stones beneath a stream. Bright and dull,
lusterous or sodden, the weigh beneath this consciousness. Reasons turn
out to be excuses, beliefs turn into alibis. Words wind up next to
useless when they can only carry you to someone's door. No amount of
knocking can guaranty they will admittance. No amount of talking can
tell another so.
The wanderer learns to read the weather. The
mendicant learns to see through hearts. The apostate flits from branch
to branch, each perch alerting all to the revelation of its latest
truth. You learn too young to hide the things that everyone can see,
your secrets a story you hide to fool yourself. The tide is wild, the
tide is gentle. The waves may lift you up and bear you safely, the wave
may break you upon the ruthless rocks. You love with all the abandon of
fire, taking it with you with every touch. I love as one who knows the
many ways a heart will shatter, knowing so few ways to make it mend.
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