Illusions. Placebos.
There is no rage in its courage. Even in their dying hours the embers are stoked not by anger, but by passion. It is with this courage with which it will submit; embrace the stem of reality; a thousand poisonous thorns in the shadow of a rose. And thousand poisonous thorns are what is needed to create pores in a body closed off - so it can pour out the pain and then breathe again.
There is no consolation here. Prepare your warmest condolences for the fallen. All these streams meet in an ocean of dismay & disappointment. How deep this ocean runs.
The salt water has put out the fire. Still hope floats. And so we wait. We wait for that day when a fateful breeze will blow, the embers will once again be incensed, and the ashes will once more set ablaze.
- Until from the ashes we are raised -
- Until from the ashes we are raised -
No comments:
Post a Comment