Knowing it won’t find us seems a nervous half-truth as we can’t begin to imagine or even grasp the weight of it, a pang so low it easily slips inside our bellies unnoticed, a nest of baby bird’s mouths yawning their silent cries, peeking inside our certainty of ‘never’ and ‘impossible’ . Sidling up next to our confidence, emptiness bridges the gaping doubt, bit by tiny bit, until the pang seizes our awareness with the pounding of famine. Never. ...Impossible. Never. ...Impossible. Never… © 2010 by mark prime Click to Give @ The Hunger Site
(The Weaver's Song)