I am moss clinging onto
pages of books, sucking air:
the wisdom of others is my friend.
Fertile green, slippery rock,
wet with love. Have you ever
loved a book so much
it became your being, and
the stories became yours?
You dream rainstorms
and you wake up twice
as long, full and hungry
for soil.
If you look at the tread of the front wheel
long enough, you’ll either get into
a hypnotic rhythm, or you’ll cause your
premature death. How much of life
is this rhythm? We are bound by routines
like bundles of dried flowers by a string.
The gravel falls everywhere and you’ve got
no control where it lands. You never know
where the first weed in the flower bed
will show itself. But if you find out what
nutrient the earth is missing, you can
at least try to add some love beneath
your feet.
lifeismanythings 