la vie en rose


French is the language of
My ancestors
Something of their lives
Accents mine

Both retina and
Intention
Are prepared
For daylights grappling
Clutches

Moving song through
Lips of infallible
Absence

Love is a corrugation of
Blood
Sung in gardens shaded
In the ink of pondering
Humility

The kind that wears white
To prove it has no ego
Yet sits amongst red
Roses

Then returns home
Wearing pink, and
Smelling of both
Flesh and Love

Singing a song of
Romance and anguish
That turns honey to
Bees


Thoughts
Thirty minutes in, not only was I playing, but I was singing with the crowd. Somewhere amongst the voices I’d touched upon the bee’ing place.


I’d been there before, maybe in another lifetime, but recognized my voice for the first time, realizing I was not alone, and not just in that moment. It was true what I’d heard, that all the heart feels need not be spoken to be real, but it did need to find expression, so a song written on pink papyrus is what I’d become.

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