Last night as I lay awake thinking a bit too much, some words written nearly a decade ago came back to speak to me:
I will not write, or weep, or live a cliché.
Mine is the portrait of the cracked earth,
Mine the shifting sigh of leaf fall.
There is an art in the abandonment of the broken,
And I am as empty as the rain.
The stars do not need to sail the sheer for me.
Sunrises whisper and the moonshine grows shy,
Shadows melt into the bright glaze of memory,
And darkness ebbs to a shiver,
But I hold the colour of the universe.
Nothing can shade me out,
When each grey day has such splendour.
I’ll rock my soul through stormy seas,
Weary joy wild with questionings,
But still I come, moving ever closer,
To the clearer within,
To the beginning.