Sunday, February 22, 2015
My heart beats as even as the metronome set to 90. I want the volcano to melt the heart and reshape it. That will leave burns and scars. Can I love myself in the soul room? Or does there have to be someone else to equal my existence in this fire? I still hurt in love
I'm alive to tell. I've fallen many times. There's an indent on my pillow. The field of fresh fallen snow. New love crested like milk to young bones. Little Robin. Land on my finger and sing. For I am a tree in this snow.
Inside the soul room. The heart spins around the sun. The earth and the sun a love story. I pretend the sun is your face. It lights up my world. Oh to pretend your light shines on me. Makes me feel like I'm in love. Like the earth and the sun spinning the snow falling in this room. Spinning never touching.
Curtains rise like the morning. Shadows on the warmest hearts. Show their darkness. Show the dust in the corners we refuse to sweep until spring. Do we remove it, or let it burn: this darkness and shadow.
Oh, I'm alive. So many with my heart don't live to tell about it. Ask the robin. With a heart painted on it's breast for all to see, while on the inside homeless to the seasons. Little bird, land on the stone that is my heart. Melt it to fire. Melt it into love.
I hear her voice. She likes to hear me sing. Gives me praise. It's a moment 20 years ago. But she made bread and wine out of her heart, her voice. Her soul room a powerful vibrato with perfect pitch and tone. For a moment I feel defeated. I said no to such a life. I was touching it caressing it, playing with it like a tiger and prey.
But I have the pen of a writer. I heal myself with my words. Words are my weights strengthening my soul. In it's soul room.