It is said
by mouths that do not move
it is gauche to write about oneself
(over-much)
and she didn’t always, for the world had so many things to describe
until the sink hole swallowed her breath, tar covered and added feathers
her crimson brand ran like a howl down a deserted one-eyed street
if she were a fish she’d have no scales, and nothing to measure what she lost
nor a compass to find through hooded treeline, her way back to who she’d been before
this is the way of transformation
forced from our stage we are bound and gagged
the way forward obscured like rubbing grease on glass
it hurt to be cut by ice, it stung to know no intuitive language
hands tore at her sides whilst she slept on a brick within a house, held down by gravity
they told her; you will not recover it is time, to put aside hope
along with your beautiful dresses, your long dreams and afternoon sun
she wasn’t ready to lie, like a pin against other cold metal
to be counted and cooked to the marrow, ready for sucking
for she was warm, she was alive, she hadn’t climbed all her life, just to see a cloudy day
it wasn’t her way to admit defeat
as migrating birds returned and sat like tired audience to her calls for help
she knew, a fight is never asked for, it beckons you when you stand on cliffs edge
trying to count the ways you might die
such a sorrow in planning your own end, long before you intended
she still had so much still to do
hair to plait, skirts to hitch, and ride, ride out into the wilderness
where raw bones are the purest listener
they will hear you when you throw yourself down on wet moss and
burying your fevered head in earth, call upon angels
for protection was something she hadn’t thought of
since she was a little kid walking to school alone
and then she had an imaginary horse, and all the years to come
now, the clocks turn back, time rushes forward like an impulsive guest
who has drunk her fill
ransacking light she streaks out into the forest and you cannot follow
because she is quickly absorbed into gesturing evening dusk
perhaps never there at all
that’s how she feels now, half alive, half hanging on
at the witching hour, it is all she can do not to throw herself into the glittering lights of oncoming traffic
for she is not as strong as those who endure like a costume, their own brand of hell
she has only herself and it isn’t enough
so the words come
and they stay loose and unsure upon the page
as if they know her fragility and their own insubstantial compose
if she can stay long enough, maybe she’ll see something new
maintaining equal hope with encroaching dawn
that is when everything from the day before, gathers
turns to dust and we begin over, perhaps better
with every urging push, splitting apart, garnering strength from invisible force
as fierce and distant as a Northern wind
we who know, how to birth life and produce hope
from the fragility of almost nothing
(Inspired by RandomwordsbyRuth who said; “Survival is the highest form of compliment we can give ourselves.’)
If I had been your mother and you my daughter
history said
Coming sudden
Don’t give a thought
TheFeatheredSleep 