if the clouds are the sands of time...

then as above so below

 

into being held by my own ears...

 I burn so I can remember

the mark of the 13

touching mine 

into reaching

into being held by my own ears.

The salt of those days

pressed

into my heart

in a bathing

that was skin

and a child

and a naked fool

of hoping

that this desire was absolution

and God's desire.

Now, a disciple

of my own listener

and my own salvation

and the fire(when i remember)

those days

is a hot christening

and a ressurection.

like cursing ivy and looping ends...

 dissapointment is hollow and sandy

jagged upon the heart

it feels hateful.

for all that you give

everything curls back

and so how can the heart

not become heavy in it's hollow?

she wants to trace new dawns

breathe upwards 

into new cycles

and beyond

and the patterns of yesteryear

still,

like cursing ivy

and looping ends.

i've got nowhere to go...

 I Can't Take It

i felt the branches of it looking at me...

Somewhere Only We Know 

you live illusion...

Wanted 

anyway run...

 

Zebra