SEEDS WE KEPT IN OUR PALMS
We are blue in our emptiness with notes struck in a room with no walls deep down, below the pale sky we flout our ways with imagination with weak palms cupped around nothing feeble eyes fixed on a horizon we have never once walked toward. We dream, and dream, to make more clouds as if a wish could carry the weight our hands were built to lift. But a cloud is only rain that forgot to fall and a man who only dreams is an ember curled inside cold ashes waiting for a wind he refuses to let in warmth with nowhere to go mistaking its own glow for a fire. We truly arrive into who we are only when we let our inner muscle free itself from the stress of looking beyond beyond the work, hour, and the handle that was given to us for exactly this: to raise our hope like a rib cage lifting with breath, to tally the small proofs of our own strength. One done thing after another until we start growing green g...