The strangest notion came to me when I was crying, just a few minutes ago. Crying is so much like bleeding. The way the tears felt - I didn't want to cry, I turned my head in embarrassed shame even though there was no one to hide the tears from - but I did it anyways. I turned my head and fought the welling, I didn't want it... but it came anyways. It surprised me, the way they came so fluidly, moved so perfectly down and away from me, rolling off my nose. They were hot... my tears felt like blood. The way I wiped the traces away, the path the tears had left, felt much like the same gesture and reaction to wiping away drops or a smear of blood.
The liquids within us, the things that seep out when we are wounded in one way or another... completely different and utterly the same. You can hide it, you can cover it up, you can wipe it away... maybe you can even stop it... but you won't ever be able to change it, for what it was and what it represents. Go ahead, staunch the flow of blood or tears, it won't ever change what happened.

I wipe away my tears the same way I wipe away my blood: Thoughtfully.

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Traces of inspiration, the divine spark?
The images came to me, blurry and indistinct, I couldn't smell or feel a thing. Deaf. These are the beginnings of creation, but I still can't see, can't feel, can't smell or hear or taste any of it. I feel so crippled, so deficient. If only I could just capture the brilliance that lurks within...

But I can't. This is all I can grasp - fleeting glimpses of such beautiful, terrible things.
The ruins of Heaven? Where am I? Am I alive anymore?


A stir of echoes within my head
My babbling muse, I rouse from bed
She speaks of life and death and love
of haunted souls, alighted
A luminous dove in winged flight
across the lands of

A whispering muse wakes me from bed
a stir of echoes within my head
She speaks of life and death and of
such haunted souls and lighted love
Luminous doves in winged flight