The sun remained still, it was I who crafted a path for spirit to flow outward, life to flow inward, remain, and hold fast her delicious concoction of dream. Why have I taken up the dream and soured its indelible wish? Who has given me permission to crash my fetid thoughts into Heaven? What must I imagine it is for me to set her Love free that she might dance joyfully beneath the breathing sun? When will my alarms finally awaken my child and send it out in search of my better self? Tomorrow? Tomorrow’s tomorrow? Tomorrow’s broken line of tomorrow’s, with my hands outstretched begging for another chance at tomorrow? The line is bereft with my soiled smiles that haven’t given their joy over to themselves, I still hold the documentation of my enslavement, the shackles that cut into the skin of my hope are like steady reminders to rise with the sun and do the work of the thankless Man, capital “M” man, not the idleness of the diminutive, small “m” man. No. The courage fou
(The Weaver's Song)