Feed Me More than Loud Words

Tear the words asunder, till the flecks of blood can be seen on them. The mind that wonders to spaces of the cage of safely and known mantras come to the fall, safe yet again. Do not let the time of your own voice become a sound unlike your own tone. The nature of the manner does not hold true. So the two swallows cry to each other. In them songs of equal value seems to waver in the wind.

And so the hearts bound by silk and razor wire beat towards and against each other, screaming for skin and the knowledge that they have a home. A place to rest their bloody selves. They are two scared to push free and risk tearing their walls open and leaving themselves empty, and hollow.

I wonder. The body is tied to the image, and the idea that we are here. From that we lay down our notions of frailty, and doubt. Hate of the reflection, lost in the tides that beat against the flesh till it becomes raw. So hope lies in giving the mirror to another, alas in that we give value to the words that seep from its keeper. One day the words may become so deep and painful that we take that mirror back, but the words remain, etched in the frame, unable to wipe the meaning from the reflection  And so the history of other ideas become carved on our image. What is left for the the loving keepers but to scream louder, and over ride your own narrative, hoping that their good intent does not scat as deeply as their lover's history.

If I knew I would tell you what hope was before the feet of those with good intention and only slightly speckled hearts, but alas the dessert hold so few an oasis and too many mirages.