writing prompts


in the space, here, in this soft fleshy nest, cupped in my palms, where lines deeply etched intersect, intertwine, these ley lines, cross planes, dividing me from myself, the one that is breath,
simple and pure – clean – as cold as the northern winds, as silver spun as the stars, in their faraway beds;
yet here, where I am incomplete, I am all possibilities, fragments in stone, water, the metallic taste of my mouth – these atoms, atmosphere, beyond where oxygen is of need, in this space I dream of what I knew once, when eons were indigo blue, in this space where silence reigns ___ yet still I ache, speak, break for control, but perhaps here, in this soft, fleshy nest, my hands cupped, the lines in their ballyhoo language, are first breath, where if I listen well enough, I come to learn, to let go, to forgive of myself first; surely this must be “the secret,” ___
a prayer, in a small and salient way; so then let these small scars speak, offering me a path to the in:complete – all I must ask is for their silken stranded strength to light me home

✖ written for: Stream of Consciousness Saturday: SoCS 11th Sept. ’21 : word inspo. “where”

Wildchild47 ___ all rights reserved 2021.


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