What a beautiful world this is.
Its magnitude is refracted from before the waves of nothing into the spaces that grow faster than they could know.
Its power measures dew drops into infernos and beyond indefatigable momentum. Its terrible subtlety hinted in tendrils of air, the rustling of feathers, in the dreams of a man, echoed in every moment.
Editorial notes: This poem was found in ‘Draft’ mode in the original blog and may be incomplete. It is published here in its original state. It was last updated on 19/09/2016 Arise, my heart. Don’t look down, no matter the pains that surround me. Shine, my heart. Cast the beacon of your feelings on all that arises within me. Your light has come, my heart. The sympathy you seek...
A warmth that expands and demands and drives steam into the mind’s chambers. A hot wind carrying flakes of brittle rust, curling around the chest; abrasive. A tube carrying ease and motion, behind the heart between the lungs, strangled and pinched and squeezed. A driver of power, planning and scheduling confidence and assurance and recurring pride. Schemes and checkmates and victory parades...
When I look at the moon I think of you. You know that feeling – falling through the stars? Sitting in the park (the vacuum of the cricket field, the silence seeps from cedar benches bereft of players) or along the beach (I hope you’re there now, the ocean’s lapping is like a heartbeat and it follows us into sleep, through dreams), gazing upwards (the land becomes lost, and...
