Hope in the Dark

Darkness.
Night sky.
Eyelids flutter open.
Stars breathe.
Empty with darkness.
Full of stars.
A paradox above.
Inspires both light and dark.
Now,
here
we
go.
Above,
beyond,
understanding
hope.
What do we find beautiful in the night sky?
The deafening blackness?
The empty dark void?
The endless cold space?
No.
The warm beams of the moon.
The space filled with stars.
The sky singing with light.
The hope that shines in the dark.
It’s the light that shines through.
Hope.
Hope as seen by the stars.
As seen by what we believe is there.
It only takes a small bit to believe.
                                                                                                              H o l d  O n.
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Originally Written November 18, 2016

Beautifully Terrible Paradox

Love is a beautiful paradox.
Love is pure joy.
Love is a deeper understanding.
Love is a peaceful sigh.
Love is a feeling.
Love is an action.
Love is full of pain.
Love is millions of tears.
Love is fighting for the best.
Love is knowing the worst.
Love is believing beyond doubt.
Love is a terrible paradox.
As it hurts it gives something beyond joy.

 

Originally Written February 16, 2016

Semblance of Grey

Cloudless sky. Clouded sky.

Damp and dark. Hollow trees.

Leaves dripping and falling to the ground.

Mud. Frozen. A tundra of the heart.

Melding, melting into something softer. Kinder.

 

Underneath a layer hidden.

Redefining from within.

Opening from the inside outward.

Ripping off petals for new growth to begin.

True Story.

A little girl.

A little girl with pigtails.

A little girl with pigtails wearing pink.

A little girl with pigtails wearing pink running after a ball.

 

A ball.

A ball rolling.

A ball rolling down into the street.

A ball rolling down into the street past the line of safety.

 

A car.

A car with a driver.

A car with a driver who’s vision is hindered.

A car with a driver who’s vision is hindered slamming on the breaks.

 

A woman.

A woman distracted in conversation.

A woman distracted in conversation looking up.

A woman distracted in conversation looking up and screaming.

 

The little girl stops.

The ball rolls.

The car stops.

The woman runs after the little girl.

One Day

One day.
One day consisting of 24 hours.
One day of inhales and exhales.
One day where people walk, talk, think, and speak.
One day when people are born and people die.
One day that contains joy and sorrow.
One day is the same as yesterday.
One day will be the same tomorrow.
There is nothing new under the sun.
Today is one day.
Breathe.
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Written November 8, 2016

Autumn. Or Fall.

A plastic bag sits in the freshly harvested field

The wind slowly rustling it, but it’s stuck in the stocks.

The leaves are still on the trees

The wind slowly rustling them, but soon they will fall.

 

The grass green.

The flowers fading.

The sky ever changing.

 

Sunsets earlier and sunrises later.

The light lessens and the darkness increases.

Blankets. Tea. A good book.

Snuggles with pets and Netflix for cold, rainy days.

 

Heat turning on AC seldom used.

Final bonfires and fireplaces regularly being lit.

Extra layers, cardigans, flannels, jackets, hoodies.

Sandals away and wool socks rediscovered.

 

The smell of things fading, decaying.

A season turning slowly then all at once.

Lingering taste of summer on our lips.

Then forgetting it ever existed.

 

A deep breath in.

A deep breath out.

Now it’s autumn.

Or fall.

Ends and Begins

The script for my life

ABC’s 123’s

Counting and reading

Writing and learning

Checking the boxes of an ordinary life

 
First steps, always happening.

Old beginnings, new endings.

A cyclical pattern, unknown was the start.

If I could find it would I understand?

If I could map it out would I better plan?

Could I understand the way my mind works?

Could I grasp something solid with the trio contained plus liquid and gas?

 
Trinity of self. Mind, body, spirit.

Only now I begin to truly hear it.

My body.

A breath in. A breath out.

each one ends. each one begins.

a cyclical pattern.

Of course there was a start to this… There will be an end.

But unknown.

 
I know the start of many happenings.

I know the end of many.

But why do I concern myself with this darkeness of the unknown?

Is the unknown always dark?

Is there such a thing as known?

Perhaps light comes from being unknown.
Perhaps light is defined by something other than known or unknown-ness.

 
Perhaps trying to define this in some form of poetical prose will not help.

Perhaps. A cup of tea.

The breeze outside my window.

Hearing children laugh in the distance.

Smelling a candle and seeing its dim light fade.

 
Perhaps a realignment with my true self.

The one I have hidden back in a forgotten room.

Waiting until it is safe to surface.

For the lights to be off so that I cannot be seen.

But cannot my true self be this one I have created?

Is the true self only the best self?

 
It’s probable that this is another unknown.

Maybe myself, being what it is, needs growth.

Maybe there is not a good or bad or best or anything at all.

I wonder if there is such a thing as just.

just being.

just resting.

Believing that I don’t mark off every check box

I don’t type out all of my thoughts

I don’t finish every book or watch every episode

I just am. I exist. I am safe. I am loved.

To be. Alive. Fearing death more than fearing life.

Or to lack fears at all.

 
The softest blanket taking over the place of a usual lightning cloud

The silent room taking over the screaming mind

a calmness.

a peace.

the start.

the end.