|Artist: Henriette Brown|
absorbed into my blood stream,
travel the length of my inner
down to my finger tips,
where they utterly possess
whatever helpless writing
implement my fingers grasp,
forcing their way in and emerging,
to my surprise,
not as blood,
but as ink.
At least, writing is so much more than only that.
It is meditating - embrace the perfect storm inside.
Don't take cover.
Stand on the hilltop, arms spread wide,
laughing with the thunder and lightning
while the wind and rain dance all around.
It is searching - get lost in a book.
Get so far lost,
it is difficult to find a way out
from between the musty, yellowed sheets.
It is dreaming - fall asleep mid sentence.
Be not where the body is.
Be flying in the sky above or walking in the earth below.
Even be someone else.