People ask me what I do all day.
I sit quietly, and I weep, is my reply.
So sad, they guess.
Yes – a bit of that. But mostly I am still, to think of things that move me.
And when I’ve moved myself to tears I know, I’ve rubbed up against some truth.
You have so much potential, they say.
I say, and patience too.
For me, you see, the yet is best to come.
I am but a page of paper
marked and stained just so
Turn the leaf
a page unspoiled
I’ll paint myself anew
Sing with the first morning’s light
Dance in long shadows
Till the earth weighs
I am the torch
That bares brighter
With each step in the dark
Everything is random, by the forces upon them.
It flows, then it hurdles and cascades, thoughtless of the rocks.
It scatters, then gathers a great wave.
It crashes, it corodes and creates it anew.
We are the pebble, caught in the wash.
If we’re still as we tumble we can only just hear, the roar of whatever was, and the hiss of what will become.
And know, for a moment, that we are the where, where it all came to be.
You, can fall asleep in my arms
And nothing will come of it
But the sweetest of dreams
Nothing happens for a reason.
Everything that happens has meaning.