i wake with fire and acid. and the stalks of grass and the african dancers sway in time and push their visions toward me. the full and pregnant moon whispers brush strokes curved and caressing and resplendent while my eyelids tremble in sleep. for as long as a caught breath after an unexpected shadow, i hold these things of beauty in my hands. they kiss my fingertips as they alight and fly to another open vessel. with the glow that never lasts long enough, i try and i try and i try to smear the discarded trinkets and bits of lace with life. with the life that i cannot hold on to, with the life that is not mine was never mine but some small piece of divinity and perfection that quite by accident fluttered across me on it's way to some opaline utopia i can sometimes almost almost see. madness swells against me, furiously working my hands and face and self into a barely contained scream of motion. it flows with my blood out of nowhere and everywhere and is it me?
then the pang of feeling more than i want to the space where the god touched be nothing again. not empty, not devoid, just plain and nothing, nothing, nothing, nothing.
a gift. a glimpse. a wisdom. it was never me to begin with. it was a voice that needed me to be heard, a vision that needed me to be seen. i need it too, sometimes, to have purpose.
