they act as if their dead insides, machinist hearts are most valuable. guarded, i’m sure, guards while swords pierce the heart of my soft soul – but there must be a purpose, a worth in delicacy.

garden reading & I just want – no, need – the sky to open up, to let it out, to let my secrets into the flowing cycle of life, the universal oneness, the tears from the heavens I deny so well. a cardinal calls for his lover & I am broken, a word I always scoffed at, now I wince, wince like the salting of a self inflicted wound, ache for the clouds to sing songs of nourishment, the winds to blow my past, present, future, the days to slow and speed up, life to just.. be. how do I be?