We all have our moments
where we can’t think
through the sadness.
The moments where
minutes become years
and years swell
with the vacancy of
what was stolen or
left carelessly behind,
where we’re lost in
a bitter cycle of
hyper-critical doubt,
where the words are
etched into raw flesh
and ink flows fiercely
from bloodless veins,
where hopes dissolve
into the breath filling
some other’s lungs
and dreams collapse
into shadows haunting
the recesses hidden
within longing hearts –
and these are the
everything moments.
This is where you
are the burned forest,
the exploding star,
the dry season,
the decomposing flesh
slowly offering its carbon
back to the land and
into the beating heart
of some newborn thing
whose mother ate the cow
who ate the grass
that fed upon the nutrients
and grew within the carbon
that you left behind.
This is where you are rebirth,
where you are possibility,
where you are life proving
its relentless will to live.
This is where you
are empty, alone, and
existing without cause
or intellectual use –
an inactive passenger
peering through the
clouded lens of regret,
wishing you would’ve
loved your leaves more,
wishing you’d said
goodbye and good luck
to departing photons,
wishing you’d thanked
the water for filling
your barren plains,
wishing you’d been kinder
to your body when it
carried you through life.
We all have moments
where we can’t think
through the sadness,
and these are the
moments of beginning.
Renee Novosel
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Wallflower Whimsy 