~ Space for Sprouts ~

The cracking of shells
leaves me in smoke,
and dust.

I break. And break. And break.

Pieces of pain,
my hands are stained.
Bones and flesh,
return to dust.

I come full circle.
Again
and again.

What’s old need to go,
what’s new want to grow.

On the ground;
I rest my legs.
My hands are covered
in soil,
I hold on to the bones;
I hold on to the soul.

The process of destruction;
the process of becoming.
Another layer.
Another depth.

Deception,
reluctance.
Now I am blind.
The new hasn’t been birthed;
the old hasn’t left.
Not just yet, not just yet.

In between. In between.
I am in between.
I am in the realm
of
the unseen.

Yet another detonation,
what needs to come down
eventually
will.

It falls
all
over
me.

I am beneath the old.
I am covered in soil.

Memory lane has collapsed
all over my chest.
I am beneath,
I am laid to rest.

Every structure has disrupted.
And I float
at the center
of the momentum,
in the vortex
of perception.
Crashing. Crumbling. Cracking.

The final destruction;
the leaving of the old,
what’s new
does always want to grow.

Every breaking
is
always
a new birth,
and the sun’s light
does always
return to the
Earth.

So,
I am
making space.
Space for new things,
I am making space;
space for
the spring.

There is no doubt,
its is the first sign
of growth.
And I am making space;
space for
the Sprouts.

 

~ av Sara på januari 25, 2018.

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