Monday, February 4, 2008

when there can be no winners

More Dior. My love.

Each betrayal begins with trust
Every man return to dust.

Shekina, now I understand.


I'm trying not to dream of Spring, but when I wake at dawn, it comes so early now, and I've sweated out a fever in dreams of peaceful dreams (I shouldn't be so dreamy), I can slide past the winds, the remnants of cold rain. I can feel the dirt between my fingers, crammed into my nail beds. I can feel the thorns of my roses; the cedar splinters I smell still hours later. Mars has moved out of retrograde. It is time I shed my cloak of awkward dreams. It is time I be myself and lose the bitter anxiety I've been so steeped in.

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