of all the seeds that have been planted, the layers of time, my intended script to traverse them. I pick up an end, I lay a hook, I transcend and descend between them. Above is the coursing meaning to make or withhold, below the roots tumble and twist into earths night soil, seeking nourishment for what could be.
My body has never been a temple, it has always been a garden. My mind has been the cornerstone of will, to seek that which supports something higher still, a more justified existence, a formidable gateway to the inner chambers of my own soul, of what you cannot kill.
My heart has turned itself inside out and then in two. I am two and one at the same time. I beat to the rhythm of your insanity with one hand and a clarity unheard, silently pulses from the other. Between the two I wait and I wait and I wait.
Of all the seeds that have been planted, I am still looking for the one that bears my own name. Tossed into the wind as souls so often are, I learn to let go of the need, so vain.
And so it is, and so it be. I am a wanderer again, just the same.