Black_Bird
Not Innocent
- Joined
- Oct 26, 2001
- Posts
- 9,019
... like a ribbon of flesh through the teeth of a book made monster; no struggling in life, no peace in death unless drowned in freedom and stripped of identity.
There are sunrises that blind the soul where the hands of man are yet to form. There is sweet air in the wind where the spirit of man is yet to move. There are rivers, crossed by branches and stone that feet are yet to carress. We must find these places.
Slow processes, nightly grinding of jawbones and calloused skin against desert sands, tear us down like fireflies in the light. We claim higher, so we jump in an attempt to float, only to land hard back to earth. But if we all lept at once? Ah...
There are sunrises that blind the soul where the hands of man are yet to form. There is sweet air in the wind where the spirit of man is yet to move. There are rivers, crossed by branches and stone that feet are yet to carress. We must find these places.
Slow processes, nightly grinding of jawbones and calloused skin against desert sands, tear us down like fireflies in the light. We claim higher, so we jump in an attempt to float, only to land hard back to earth. But if we all lept at once? Ah...
then,
