Monday, 2 July 2012

oh, these imperfect circles

oh, these imperfect circles; these deceptively fragile worlds composed of the thinnest skin and bravest hearts, where viriditas so thickly blooms. tell me, what kind of flowers grow around your ribs? are you able to bask in the pleasure of a body so satisfying to read? plant your feet under my table, reshuffle the world. there is no need to count the unknowns. but still, tell me something i dont know. tell me a secret. tell me of all the moments which were love and i'll reciprocate with the stories of the places i call home, i'll show you this is where and point to my breast bone. press your ear to my skin and listen. do you believe we are more than chambers of flesh threaded with ropes of blood and histories? i shall chronicle old rituals performed in days that had meaning. it is not always possible to give shape to that which is invisible. these days of water are simply variations of experience we made into a rule. your eyes are so faraway and clear, blue wells swallowing wishes like the sky upon which someone painted the clouds today. or at least that is the way it seemed. who is to say what's real? isn't it all relative? we possess and create our own mythologies and truths; leave in our wake discarded skins, the traces of who we want to be..