Origination

There's a place inside my head where the words come from.

There's a place where everything is truth

And nothing is hidden

And everything is beautiful

And sharp enough to cut yourself on.

I call it There.

Words are the tears of the weeping willows

And the songs of the birds

Pierce your heart

Because they sing of you

And who you've become.

The trees and bushes are stained glass,

Vibrant,

Transparent,

Knife-edged.

The ground you walk on is pillowed by the smoldering embers

Of the short lived fireworks

That blocked your vision of the stars. 

You walk down the path,

Your feet burning,

Slicing your palms on the foliage,

Asking the birds who you will be

And catching the words falling from the willows

Only to read

Pain and

Hate and

Joy and

Confusion and

Rest and

Motion and

Beauty.

You take them apart

And assign them meaning

And create a mosaic

Of revelation

And the willows cry more emotions

And the birds sing more truth

And the trees cut more captivation

And the ground releases more smoke

And suddenly

You is I

And I write

The tears

And the song

And the blood

And the ash

And There

Is

Satisfied.