Jan
9
The wildness in me stirs when he is around. How can I say it any other way, or live in the pallid portions when that remains the reality. Up from something primal and unknown, and it comes up again, always. How can the mere identity of another, brushing up against you like that dream of much destruction, stir.
Who could want wildness, or allow it in the civilized portions - the great untamed; is it in all of us? Yet the pale slumber that is the living when I walk away from him…
Who can understand these things, or make right when all else has been the slumber, and the slumber was crafted long ago by other roads, other decisions, other small breaths that seemed like need…
