deep within the core

“In a tangled way, the green of the trees is part of my blood. Inside me life beats in some distant heart… I was not meant for reality, it was life that sought me out.”

We’re a stormy kind of people— my father rained for days after his funeral; we each of us tempest our old-world rage. In another age we’d have been gods, but here we are, in our mortgaged homes, rented apartments, in our leased cars, in our morning commutes. Here we are in our everyday spite and sorrow, in our lifetimes of fury. All our sturm und drang and nothing to show for it; we’re human even on the worst days— when it rains it pours and we’re caught in it too.

xshayarsha:

There are stories we refuse to tell. To tell them would be to set them loose upon the world.

Something stirs amomgst the Cosmos. Something vast and dark and writhing and infinite in its glory. It calls out in a hundred million voices that feel like a tidal wave, a hurricane, a supernova, that reach through you and grip your ridiculously small existence like a vice.

there is beauty in chaos, child

summer night dream, velvet sky carrying the moon,  leaves whispering

All things are connected. What we surrender, we may be given. What we lose, we may find again. For every one there is another.

i’ve forgotten my name but there’s music in my mouth, as usual we shouldn’t let poets lie to us, but we will. i’m not saying hope is good. we’re not pretending we have a choice, just that we haven’t already made one.

But poetry says things that nothing else can. It snares the edges of the unspeakable. It grazes dreams. It stands with feet in several worlds. It says two or three things at once, and then denies them all in favor of silence.