Lost in the ligature
between letters of the word,
riding the waves
of the cursive line.
Writing is liberation.
Reading is freedom.
Truth is honesty.
Stories are home.
A live word lived
honestly as truth,
simply within the blood flow
of the letters cursive veins.
A word is a
life lived,
in liberation,
in freedom,
in honesty.
Trading paint colors with the leaves,
stories and folktales with the branches.
With time,
the print of the word is stronger,
and is engraved in our will.
Or it is washed away,
and pentimento is pargeted.
We die when
we’re forgotten.
Calendar create, ritual and elevation.
Community and art,
fragile and vulnerable.
The ordinary is remarkable.
Words repeat.
Amen
Filed under: 🜁 Self – tracing the inner landscapes of thought, feeling, and becoming.