The Bookshop Sessions #7
I left my left hand to lay on my chest, protecting my heart. It’s condition to this vision of what is meant to be, but what if I don’t know what I don’t know and it’s crucial I lose all sight. A right hand warm to touch sleeps on my tuning fork of a head, that waters down the tones and moans of mental foggery. A fell group could not philo my sophia. Is it up to me to know that deep down I’m afraid of the judgement. That deep down the pain ~ that is the favourite subject. It’s aimed at my brain. Praying to pray on the prey that pray and breeds moor ebells and willsuls. It’s raw.
I know the rails that hunt the times of tree trunks. I can’t keep up with the flows of this river jump. It’s a star that stares down, intimidating a young body old soul. For how young is the song sung when the owls’ night-bound eyes reflect the light. She’s in a fight with the moon and the day for more night. A lasting noise on a river side holds tight to the boats right next to our whispers.
I pause.
Lift my hand to my tongue. No taste. The other hand writes and its open palm has a smell that makes it no swell story to make sense in a starving heart. How was it that the last to start this darkest heart in the direction of …
No direction to go.
Consulting the tolden olds spark a way for some ways but now I only see one way sways in amongst hurtin turntables. The stable fables of the girl from Portugal seem to bring light to a darkness that didn’t leave Shantaram on the table. Its fate went well for it can’t sing with more tales that aren’t already told with children in mind. If it’s divine then I guess. Do I keep it going or wonder of all the worries that define time on the measures of our mind? When infinite is eternal how can a soul be told what the hearts feel. How can the mind decide when it’s time to time this timely action? Always weighing reactions to see what should action a man of. Great Ma’s calling. She’s in my spine again.
The bees came up in the dreams last night. One lodged itself at the tip of my spine. So was it her or was it I? Did it fly to say or was it nudging for more glories? She leaves her scars at the base and pine the tip and top of confusing rays that beam down. I’d run towns away. For it took this one four miles to reach its water source. I’m forced to diplore this lore of open spillings that became the only shillings I was willing to shiver. On first spokens this cabeza wanted killings, it wanted to mark the start of an end. But the more it became a friend the heart had its turn and I turned the mind to delete its freaks. For a moments story became a moment’s moment and then a moment became four moments and the four stars linked to old lives weren’t ever told to another soul, but she.
Did I become the lead for a leaking tree?
The coldness holds longer at the bottom and I’d shiver but that’s way too old.
Do I remain humble amongst the rain that lands on top of purple whales that fail to set sail? I make sure it’s you. Is it you? Or the wind I hold? Because I feel its past in passing. So make it make sense. That an open ear to all my thoughts became the receiver of a mind way too lime for a sweetened tooth. For aloof it seemed she gleamed to forget an end before the pause. Those times are made up for him.
