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Drums, Pa, United States
My heart is on my sleeve and my soul is on paper. Please be kind to those around you, we are all glass.

The richness of sybolism

The richness of sybolism
Telling my story with no words

Sunday, January 10, 2010

How my heart and hand got screwed by the seasons

You made my heart that in turn convinced my hand (another claim of yours) pick up the supple, young, green, full of life leaf (you, again). Leaf representative of the newness and frangrance of promise. You created it all, how can it be anything but the most lovely kind, storybook ending?
It seems like an ensemble directed by the same person. It’s just supposed to flow into beauty, no conscious mind, just gutteral glee. Without regard, being naive to an ugly fault.
The seasons did actually find a way to change around my sun drenched upturned face, my pink toes dancing in the earth. Happiness and oblivion turn slowly into a pathetic shade of left behind in a longer grayer day. An awkward girl dressed inappropriately for the winter, dull face no longer lifted to the bright sun in hope.
Now, now she stares to the cold cement in shame hopes no one sees whats in her eyes, her heart, her hand. The leaf she held onto, held onto so tightly to protect, to transfer every bit of energy from it to her palm. To memorize every cell. The seasons passed without her notice or permission. Now, leave the impatient cold without permission defiantly attempts to free itself. It wants to blow away, as far away, in as many pieces as it can in the winter wind. In its simple natural act of moving on with the season it does not realize the brokenness left behind. The broken heart and body look toward the heavens. How could you create this perfect love for me, put it right in my hand, make it fit so right for a season, just a season? We were supposed to be pressed into a fossil together, how could you? Then down on the betraying hand. How could you hold such a beautiful leaf? How could the seasons be so unfair? Why bring such beauty and let it escape our tight grip as brown dust? And all of us together hate when people say “when you love something, you let it go” B*llSh$$!

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