I find myself happily walking upon the vanishing soil without vibration or collapse. I’ve been here before, near this moment, nearer the sun, a journey I chose to make upon the blinding road, a journey I’ll gladly take again. Hope is a coffin filled with time, a life filled with tombs. Many children, mothers and fathers look like bundles of dust settling their debt, coming to rest beneath mountains (a respite from the noise) their hands moving in fervent prayer, as if the wind were a reminder of truth, the sun, a machine to craft reflection. Is this what I call punishment for living like a bitter leaf, an arthritic mind that can’t remember why they’re here, or is this the defeat of a hunger closely dreamt, detached by the wickedness found in misery? I’ve been here before next to these words, nearer the sun, a voyage I desire come again, a walk upon the blinding road, a pathway engraved in souls. © 2010 by mark prime
(The Weaver's Song)