Reposted: english

I want to write
of cold, juicy plumbs,
stolen from the ice box
that taste the sweeter for it.

I want to write
of his last duchess
if anyone wonder what happened
to the faire-one's successor.

I want to write
of tomatoes
taking of a town in June,
and settling on a kitchen sideboard.

I want to write
of a sad, put-away aunt,
who brought with her
away a sweet innocent, drowned.

I want to write
of Désirée's baby,
accepting aweful fate in life
though it is not your own to bear.

I want to write of
the soul cleansing white sun,
freedom in the breath of the llano,
and know the understanding of freedom.

Am I writing yet?

Reposted: salt water

SO. This is what it is when they say
"heavy of heart"
and "weary soul."
There is so much moire in me
with no way, no where, to go
I am at a loss.
There are wonderful
moments in life,
but they fade quick in the grey
matters of my mind.
Here I am
I am alone.
I do not question
God in this.
He is causing me still to
He has never forsaken
me as my own spirit has.
NOW, for instance.
I am so tired I cannot sleep,
so sick I cannot be healthy,
too healthy so I cannot beg
Life aches.
If only,
If only my tears could fall freely
and the salt could heal my wounds