Saturday, September 9, 2017

A Kindling

I spit fire from the pyres of alters I'm unaware of.
in my belly flames grow and bloat
they spit up to the top and cling to my throat.
As I gulp them up, I let them bowl over me,
like waves before they break,
left fuming and swelling.

I'm unfurling up into some sort of a gathering,
As a blind lightning strike has struck the core of me
While time spirals, i grow in spirals
Gathering them like moss as I roll over myself
figuring which bit sticks and which I can imprint
and paint the earth from this intricate template.

I'm still unaware of the fabric that embalms me
i weave my beliefs into soft silk that is always ripping
and now I sit outside the cloth I once relied on
looking at it as if on a fence below it,
sitting in a wistful bliss.

Whatever this shape has created in me,
I will cradle it with the love of a mother.
For I am all I can be as I believe
in the soft swaying of the currents meander.