The clock hand lingers over each minute, unwilling to take it's leave like a frightened child clinging to his mother's skirts. So slowly passes the time, until you see that precious face or hear that voice, the voice on which lies the very wing beat of your existence. It could not be called comfort when your mind is so very deeply enmeshed in another, as if you could breath in their very life force, watching out for every sign, a look or casual phrase, that will either be torture or exquisite pleasure.
Yet there's the threat of what may be. The future: such a dark place. Does it hold images of a dove's wing or a flickering street light extinguished by the grey dawn of a sleepless night? Such a dire fear of having one's heart punched out whole. A pain too great to be imagined.
Time up
Goodness that was hard, tonight. The inspiration came from the Write Practice, again. I didn't want to do it tonight because it sounded such a trite idea. It was hard trying to make it NOT trite. I hope I managed it.
Yet there's the threat of what may be. The future: such a dark place. Does it hold images of a dove's wing or a flickering street light extinguished by the grey dawn of a sleepless night? Such a dire fear of having one's heart punched out whole. A pain too great to be imagined.
Time up
Goodness that was hard, tonight. The inspiration came from the Write Practice, again. I didn't want to do it tonight because it sounded such a trite idea. It was hard trying to make it NOT trite. I hope I managed it.
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I would really welcome constructive comments or perhaps even some inspiration. To be honest , I would settle for some encouragement.