The Image of Bird & Sun

And this one lonesome thought quivering over my brow raising its arms to the sky begging to be released, to be painted, sculpted on wire and on fire, on chain and on canvas.

This one thought that dances around my head like the silhouetted smoke of a black cigarette. In this chained physique; in this bound vessel I am; I am nothing more than mortified, more than fearful, more than troubled.

I am caught, I am fished out of the sea, captured in a silver net & broken into pieces, banged against the wooden bark of the lowest measure and used as a trophy.

What am I in this hollow chest? What waves cross my ribs? What electrical current inflames my soul? This churning inside me, always trembling; always desiring to split, to destroy each other, to fly farther fathoms than its oppressor; its jailer, its opposite.

Quiver this spine, this body of mine, these tears just waiting inside. The bursting, the backfire of the mind; the chained and sharp prison in which we are housed in, inevitably consuming, always forcing its way, always tearing, always ripping, always intense and piercing.

What calm do we foresee? What valley is there to escape to? What soft, sandy shores breathe to us, enlighten us, make us tear up, make us remember the serenity, the passion, the quiet of it all.

This surge, the mind always spinning, always pulsing, always rippling its way across the skin, the back, the head, the eyes… What sorrow it is, what tempestuous havoc we wreak, what mesmerizing fervor we break open, what docile songs are sung, what single beat, its single note can soothe us.