Ash Tuesday

the succinct simplicity of sentient sentiments...sends sounds of a serpeant sea soaring skyward...
into moons unborn laughing, softly into the night. 

(Oh, what it means to have clarity of emotion in your heart/body/spirit! See it expand and breathe like a jellyfish lung, its burden yet unseen. Pity for you, Seer/Feeler, pity for such pittances preyed upon you...and the paradoxical weight of ash you have to carry.)


Ash Tuesday
With every tear I shed, with every worry worn, and with every scorn ...I am getting older. With every dissappoint, with a lost glance where I never stood a chance...I am getting older.

Whereas "growing" older be a positive, horizontally defined expansion of Self, the "getting" is a cruelly vertical unidirectional arrow of irredemption. Here moments are lost forever.

I see Her in a mirror with foreign frowns, once-delicate features hardening, tiny roads and thorns and stars for eyes undulating over dark crescents. I do not know Her at first. This sad little Stranger.

With every stress, with every pain, with every heartbreak, big, small, a minor stumble or a major fall...where a heart might grow to bruise so ripe, where scrapes might turn crimson, where the pussing of protection might churn so thickly it can grow its own vine - from such machinations, I get older still.

The cells that compose of my being are scorching up, drying quickly, flawlessly, like tiny timbers, curling and burning away, ashes from a fire. Cells cried out until empty and dying, flying then dissipating into air, whispering themselves away. They leave me forever and I become smaller.

Endless bits of me dissipate, die then fly with each soul-wounded cry.

(I fear sometimes, that I am made of snowflakes.)