okcallmegoddess:

Are eyes in the front,
and staying up nights and a predisposition to
one of many slow deaths.

Mostly, I’m trying not to be afraid of the upside-downs
and the topsy-turvys,
my mother is crying on the phone and I’m thinking about
cocoons and persimmon— things that seem to happen
upside down.

Sometimes I think about seeing someone,
getting an Rx for the darkness that grows somewhere strange
in me, or the thoughts that are expecting mouse-mothers,
giving birth to litters of blind, fearful things.

The things we inherit are, also, the horizon.
And the hunter, Orion, and the lion
and rock walls like souls crying out.

And I wonder about how the rocks feel about the rain,
or how the toads feel about the wind, and then
I don’t feel so upside-down, maybe.
Sometimes, I think, it’s good to dig up the earth,
only just to know it better.

It’s spring where I’m living, I mean,
inside this ribcage. And mostly the horizon is always there, somewhere.
There is ancient graffiti, also, on rock walls like souls crying out,
and much more to inherit somewhere, everywhere.

strangeandbittercrop:

“If all the world and love were young,

And truth in every shepherd’s tongue,
These pretty pleas might me move
To live with thee and be thy love.

Time drives the flocks from field to fold
When rivers rage and rocks grow cold,
And Philomel becometh dumb;
The rest complains of cares to come.

The flowers do fade, and wanton fields
To wayward winter reckoning yields;
A honey tongue, a heart of gall,
Is fancy’s spring, but sorrow’s fall,

Thy gowns, thy shoes, thy beds of roses,
Thy cap, thy kirtle, and thy posies
Soon break, soon wither, soon forgotten—
In folly ripe, in reason rotten.

Thy belt of straw and ivy buds,
Thy coral clasps and amber studs,
All these in me no means can move
To come to thee and be thy love.

But could youth last and love still breed,
Had joys no date nor age no need,
Then these delights my mind may move
To live with thee and be thy love.”

- Sir Walter Raleigh