No more of this. The rush slows. The polished stones of lonely devoid of their stabbing edges, the flow of days pouring ever deepening calm. The roar hushes. Rivulets of expectation eddy and foam. Slower now – never still – but slower; gentler. There’s a song rising up from here. The words have new meaning, reaching as spray into a hungry sky folding at the corners, wrapping itself into the finite. Worlds collided, spun heavy misgivings, orbited cooling lust, dropped from hope’s firmament and sunk deep into the heart of land and sea. Nothing awaits. The craters formed, the skin drawn as tight as rapid age allows, the valleys of worry digging ever deeper into reflection. Pooling all of the refuse, the stream of hours purges kisses even as it robs openness. Closing off. Shutting heavy iron doors that used to threaten to choke meaning from solitary minutes, yet things pass still. Nothing blocks time’s passage, and so it flits about in waves, screens disallowing the tangle of limbs and yearning hearts, the metal of resolution locking fast bonds with self as need cools. Cascading with it is surrender, but a delicious freedom; shedding pebbles from a whole far more substantial than ever believed. The melody surrounds, the woodwind chime of sweet belief carried on summer air. Not now, it whispers on the breeze. Not now, not then and perhaps never, but be. Just be.
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