Aiming for a creative life

I Am Santo

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It’s all flame and eruption, this dilated cauldron of hurt that brews blood oil, that sticks and lines the insides of the skull, lungs and heart. With each drop of proffered kindness the trajectory is proven wrong, war-swept gales of indifference, expectations and frustration sweeping as if flack in the rain. What destinies would have lain below? What tributaries might have been fed by such gentle words and patience? Seas starve to deserts and allegiance denied, the corpse of promise bloats, stretches into corpulent fester and reveals itself among the dunes where it will desiccate as a scar on the arid smooth of anger’s release. Burning skies, rivers, creeks. Flawed evolution in the absence of a knowing, guiding hand, His plans etched in the shifting grains of dried faith and the churning waters of forgotten decency; nothing leaves here alive. What was strong is wrestled in the waning light of adoration, the dusk’s beautiful absense sweeping over ashen memory. Somewhere, in another place, each soft particle of affection clung to the skin of a lover, cleaned the wounds of self flagellation and rinsed the red into healthy oceans teeming with bliss and belief. Somewhere, not here, rolling laughter rode currents to a welcoming home, purging the caustic inflammation of every lash strike. Somewhere, familar but lost in a blink, happiness bloomed, propelled, landed, blessed. Somewhere, away. Somewhere, gone. Somewhere, remembered.

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