#originalgoddess
Man’s truths, for the most part, are only half truths
And the phases of the moon are only tricks of light
We see ourselves in her forms
And our darkness in her shadows.
The fair among us glowing with fullness,
The lost look upon an empty sky
And wonder if the moon is with their errant hearts,
Leaving only the horror of a hole in the sky.
Our truths are not truths but the way we bend the world
Like magicians
Performing only for ourselves,
So the years don’t loom so heavy above us.
Under the casted spell,
The moon’s gaze swings to Earth, drifting from the company of stars
To rest her heart with us,
To spear the darkness with loving light,
And give edges to the shadows creeping
So we may fling them from ourselves,
Or fold them into our selves,
Half-truths are better than none,
Are better than the full truth,
That Truth is really nothing at all.
Through the steam on the mirror
We are just shapes
The soft peach of me
The dark sun-tone of you,
I can’t see your freckles in the reflection
As if you are not you, and maybe I am not me
We could be one creature, one being,
Right now we are.
My hand slipping on the edge of the sink,
Yours slipping between my legs.
The faucet is cold on my cheek,
Like the gasp lingering on the corner of my lip
You can have it, if you want it,
Take it from me in a kiss.
The steam is rising, building
A culmination of the moment, approaching
A figure in the steam.
A presence, heavy and invited.
I think I hear it rising in the water
Still pouring, did we forget to turn it off?
Our breaths are tangling together
In ghostly mimicry.
I forget about the water, I was wrong.
The rising scream
Is in my throat, maybe it’s in yours too
Ripping the air apart
Too clear and too bright
In this dream caged in with slick walls
And the tiny window above the toilet.
You wipe my lip with my own desire.
I wipe the dream from the mirror,
When we’re done.
The mornings are my favorite, especially on these dreary spring days, and the cold winter mornings. The notes of classical music swelling and shrinking like a pulse, a tide, filling every room with a beauty that does not fade. Music in the room over like a memory, ringing into existence over and over, hauntingly beautiful. Each note of For Alise adds grace elegance meaning to every movement, every drop of rain sliding down the windowsill, every sigh that escapes from my mouth. These moments are my sanctuary, my solitude. The sound of the coffee machine hissing and chugging, the wind and the rain, the patter of Luna’s paws on the stairs, the creaking of this old house, these are my own melody, the instruments in my life, beginning the first movement, the gentle sweet swell of the Sonata. I am not the conductor, I am the single member in the audience enraptured with the music, the empty cathedral to music with only me to add warmth to it all. No, God is the composer, every note another step in my life towards Him, for Him, from Him. My face turned up, worship on my lips, I live for these moments of simplicity and grace.
These are the moments that we live for
“breathe in this is the symphony I.allegro the pounding in your head the buzzing of the bathroom light the static in the air building rising in your blood the tidal wave in the back of your throat II. adiago hush the thought creeps in slow and sudden the cure to the world and to you III. sherzo the air rushes back and the world comes into focus hands scrambling roughly quickly gasping laughing crying or somewhere in between IV. rondo the first cut the first droplet of red so startling, so promising heart pounding its goodbye as the blood rushes swift and the curtains close breathe out This is your symphony”—
“the way the sunshine plays in the folds of the curtains on lazy afternoons the burst of blackberry on your tongue in the summer heat the fire in your chest with that first sip of cider in the cold winter months the laugh of a stranger caught by the wind on the dappled path the graceful droop of an orchid regal melancholy in the curves of the petals these are the moments when the dreams of the world can be glimped these are the memory of pandora’s hope that serve as my suicide note”— i am tired
“can you feel the earth the rumble in your chest behind your heart but deeper so much deeper. can you hear the breathe of the sky the cold whisper of wind in the clouds in your lungs feel the heartbeat of the mountains of the olde in the back of your mind the pulse of the forests in your blood, the call of green of sky and sea and land you are the child of the earth of the sun through the trees and the sweet summer breezes the flow of the creek the chatter of the world beyond”— originalgoddess
