To look directly at those of us who are physically different, who wear our scars or uniqueness on the outside: is to look in the mirror without blinking. The facade becomes vague as we stare ,leaving us undefined and grasping for our name.
I work within this morphology, under crumpled paper. Autumnal leaves, torn bits of nothing that blow in the wind. In the shunned and forgotten lies a cipher, an insight behind what is apparently visible.
All my dreams are the same ones. Are they tired? Are they only more precious? With whom do I share this? Should my sameness, my sedentary dreams become the secret ? Nothing is different within.
Where is the renewal? Potential is what? A leap. A journey. Does that matter to the lost? My Forest may have a path, yet I wander through the woods. Crossing my own foot falls over and over. Yes, aware that this wandering only burdens and tires me. Is the goal worth it in the end? Or am I just content to wander? I wish I could say that the alleys are only a diversion.
She is in the resting places.
Small trinkest found on the street. Double the weight of the burdened. The view of the sky when supine. The nurse maid of the chastened and stumbling soul who wanders in and out.