Do you really want to hold onto it? Is this the thing you choose?
Life will only allow you to fight for a handful.
That’s all you’ll ever grab.
The problem with wanting to hold onto something is that someone can take it.
It doesn’t matter how much time or energy you spend fighting tirelessly – as soon as you shut your eyes, turn your head even, they will come and relieve you. No sooner have they done this, and they are back to the streets looting the rest of the world.
The reason we take is because we can only hold so long – We can only hold so much.
And then we put it all down in one of the ways things leave our space, to take again.
I’ve got a bloody secret for you – I keep hidden in my books… I’ve never written – It’s smeared in all the grime of ages… and men, right or wrong, who took chances to put what they dreamed up in place. Deus vult! Or do you!
Cascarilla chalk, what a waste of embryos – charcoal won’t fix you up. You can’t just imbibe – You’ll need to set fires to expel. Put the mark down! It was never scribed because reading it won’t do anyone any good. W’ere all just a bunch of cooks until our hand is knit around the grip on the other end of the edge that slew GOD in all capitals.
Drought hands, and creviced bows – if not for still wet tongues would crack like thunder. And I bet you’re still full of everything the pages told you to pile into your stomach; dandelion, sweetgrass, thistle, anything else you heard, all have their uses… but they won’t give you the vigor you’re in need of. A wall of spears with your back to a cliff is the gritty state of mind you’ll need to wear like a crown.
What will you do when the tall poppies grow in the field? Higher they seem to reach, blowing this way and the other in order to keep with the winds. Will you bend down; when all others go with the river, will you lift up the stone that will sink you low to the bottom?
“Power is given only to those who dare to lower themselves and pick it up. Only one thing matters, one thing; to be able to dare!”
We drink from tiered fountains when we’re thirsty. Call it poor etiquette, barbaric behavior, or a health code violation, and we’ll just laugh you out of your own courtyard until the moon comes mad in the night; howling dares up at the gods to come join us in your bed.
We drink wild, and thunderous libations not made for us, but hell we down em’ and taunt you to say something vivacious – with such a fire that livacious might be considered a word – Actively engaged in living energetically; abounding with life; being in a pure state; with more to lose than a lascivious candle watching its wax melt down and drip on hot iron rather than flesh.
I watched your dark clouds roll in, and your heavy atmosphere coalesce long before the cool kids turned you into songs about what you do to their wind chimes and dream catchers.
Ages back it was just us and the moon.
No other bodies or forces mattered.
Now the force is with everyone and,
no one has a clear read.
I won’t go back, I have put foot to this field,
and on the other side is my death or cleansing calamity