Poetry

They call this knot of stars a Weaving Girl

whose golden needle tears the dark apart.

You see, I want a lot.
Maybe I want it all:
the darkness of each endless fall,
the shimmering light of each ascent.

So many are alive who don't seem to care.
Casual, easy, they move in the world
as though untouched.

But you take pleasure in the faces
of those who know they thirst.
You cherish those
who grip you for survival.

You are not dead yet, it's not too

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She has a soul full of beautiful dreams, and I have strong hands that can make anything real. She shines like the morning sun and plays like the spring breeze, and I have my feet solidly in the dirt. She has endless lifetimes of torment and transcendence in her eyes, and I have endless healing in my touch. What are we? I have no idea. How are we?... See more