I am allowing that
tiny bit of hope to
fix its roots in my stomach
and tell myself that
perhaps you can love me
even though you are perfect
(more) and I am me
Even though the plant may never
see the sun
it survives somehow -
amazing, the survival instinct -
but it's trapped in my stomach
so you won't ever see the beautiful flower
that hope grows and
that never really died (less)
The world is dark. We huddle around dying fires that only make that darkness even darker. We become blind to what's beyond our sacred circles. We lock all our hopes up in that sputtering flame and never let our eyes stray from it.
(more) My fire guttered out a long time ago. But I still know your light. I can recognize it from very far away.
I vowed not to intercede. So I linger in the glittering fade, gnaw at the farthest fringes that your fire's burning can flesh out with its faint light. Swim in the swaying canopy above, bend with the branches' reaching behind. And whisper, softly, like rain on petals. Just close enough for that wick of doubt I see behind your eyes to start spitting.
Perhaps you can't see me. Or wouldn't recognize me even if you could. But then again perhaps you can. Perhaps you've always been able to, but you just don't want to believe.(less)