h.b.irwin

She, Girl, Not Life

In Uncategorized on December 12, 2008 at 1:14 pm

This misses pads of her feet on the palm of this hand. This groans and rolls this dusty back for the lay of her fleshy noodle. Pulling hair, she weeds this land with her fingers, snapping blades of grass. This land bleeds weather and breathes life into her soft lungs.

She is barefoot.

She is running away.

I am the cold-snap! The clear-cutting, kelzmer-catching wind. I blow boundaries and baron basins that I have loved with the caress of my boney, blood knuckles longer than you can breath or blink. Now you can float on my fingers. I will carry you. I have tossed you over my tentacles while I tickles the ivory mountains.

But you can whisper, girl, and make all the seas stand still.

He is brēath. Stop. Listen.

(  )

No, do this over again.

He is brēath. Alright, continue on.

He is, I am, Life, Not Life.

He is existence, all that I crave. I am she, girl, Not Life.

He is everything consuming.

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