I give up on reading books. I've spent a lot of money on comics.

3.3.13

Brushing past an old mirror me, 

there are no changes but the surface

when outside in I

bind myself 

to the holy notion of my oneness.

I drop small, to converse with the discovery, 

plaintive voice inside me says I should leave it be,

who can be friends inside themself?

But I delve deeper and find

A cosmos planted in my flower beds, 

sleeping like my head in winter. 

With my mind so low to the ground I can look up,

and hear the wind whistle past. 

Look up and see the fronds of waving grass,

feel from below what its like to be amongst, 

around, 

alive, 

alone. 

Exhilarated by the thick bitter earth between my toes, 

i want to sink into the melancholy smell of it. 

So tied to the tiny rebel,

who usually embodies a corner of me,

when I'm large 

now composes all of me,

in weird and mournful symphonies, 

I find nothings better than to sing her praises, 

and dive deep into the delicious dirt,