Nothing here is new
My heart, His art — all shattered
Hope-filled pieces, still
Sometimes pre-dawn feels like a SOS
An awakening, born out of distress
It is said back pain and a broken heart
Are the tools with which we turn life to art
If the angst you carry feels as though it’ll kill you
Then for certain, baby, morning holds your breakthrough
All the nonsense to receive
Mantas and tenets rising up
Ancient foundations to revere
What architects are responsible?
Live right, I accept
Love well, all the more
But call me not lover for a season
God didn’t build me to let go
If He tells me He did
I’ll tell Him He’s a liar
Do you, as I, daily perform an unending juggling act with the hours, grasping at fleeting minutes, feeling, by sundown, famished for time?
Who of us doesn’t wish to artfully turn the wretched clock into origami art that would sit silent and still on the wall and evidence beauty instead of lack?
Were it possible, I would wave my surely magic arms, and weave into the moments a stop gate, then take eternity to tell you, thank you, you were right, and I love you.
Shine spilled everywhere
Once again, I’m left to grow
A beautiful mess
Say something here and now to my writer’s eyes and heart. Tell me something mystical or bizarre about yourself. Share anything that will be cathartic for you, or will blow my mind. Enlighten me.
Post your own most favorite photo or other personal work of art.
Write a short story here, and I’ll collaborate and finish it with you.
Or, finish mine:
“Oh, how entirely good it is to be this aged age, having had all the conversations with all the different girls and women who I have been throughout these years! I know who I am, I know what I want, and I know what I am unwilling to do to achieve it. The beautiful mystery that remains is this: What magic-like means are out there in the world that I may take in order to manifest what I want?”
My heartpath must choose
Bow, listen and listen, bow
If I will be healed
Craft Art Credit:
“Wood Sun Who is Too Cool”
Nicole Durand, Wisconsin
Conclusions
Drawing them
An art that sure don’t care
An intellect? An artist?
Mess-maker? Long-jumper?
Languish in the mire, undecided
Conclusions
Feeling them
Hold an evanescent breath
Continue to stand and applaud
Hoping to prompt an encore
From a stage that’s gone dark
Name what it’s called when you cannot help but
Address each and every creature and the
City of emotions that washes over you, leaving you in a
State of awe? And, for those who feel
Zip? What do you call them?
LisaRosier.com 