lost and found
inner debate about the duality of blue, and i am swept again into the shimmering threads of containment. my hair is made of spider webs, my eyes the slight ether of the morning sky, not quite sure of its own existence. i pray to the small buds of spring, the dust of winter that avoids my glances, the small children rushing by me with pospsicles grasped like iconographic pillars. what do i have to do with that small mushroom made of wax, that shard of broken glass? nothing? everything? in one sweeping motion, i wish to cut myself off completely and drift into the moonless sky with You, so many more stars than we ever thought possible. farewell sweet undulating misery; as attractive as you may seem, i have had enough.