In the flashes and black shadows
of July
the days, locked in each other's arms,
seem still
so that squirrels and colored birds
go about at ease over
the branches and through the air.
Where will a shoulder split or
a forehead open and victory be?
Nowhere.
Both sides grow older.
And you may be sure
not one leaf will lift itself
from the ground
and become fast to a twig again.
William Carlos Williams
[what happens when your instinct was wrong? can you re-teach yourself to TRUST yourself? Has the enigma machine been hacked- or is the code still unbreakable? the juggernaut i call our love has waved its white flag. Its now or never... and I have a distinct feeling that it will be the latter. But then again, my instinct was wrong- initially.... Back on our level.. sifting through the ashes... only to be burned by a fire thats been out for years. The embers smolder still as a result of my long distance sighs. What I'd give to have faith in my gut, again. What I'd fucking give to get my mojo back. What I'd give to tear open your skull and see what you're really made of... is it the sweet food of the gods as I imagine... or does the void of your corpus collosum slush with ocular fluid...your hollow eyes should have explained it all. A soulless window to a decadent dark hole. You don't seem human. Perhaps my instinct was punk'd by the devil himself.]
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