~ 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.
