Suppose perfection is an infinite rock,
shapeless
and lacking individuality.
We only take shape when each a piece shattered
and dispersed
from the very center of the universe.
Tumbling into and carried along,
bounced
in and out of the river.
Entries and exits of other fragments
taking us
in and out of the river
of newfound dreams and collisions.
To only gain beauty when we can harness
what it means
to be a flood plain stone - to be weathered.
By the rain, yes. By the pour.
By the run off and all it's hell.
But, also, by the sun.
By the touch of another.
And the breath of an intimate whisper.
Oh, feel it.
Be still with her and listen.
For shape is a gift,
take form.
When we come to accept that we cannot
be everything,
we start to truly develop form.
Yes, we only take our own shape when ego's shattered,
and dispersed,
when we embrace the given weather,
hold it close and except it as lead dancer.
Shape is a gift.
And though severe turbulence,
like the hurricane,
spins the cycle of life,
perhaps it does
so that, for all,
there's a season
to take form.
Otherwise,
there is ample space,
for all of our slingshot orbits
as new rocks break off
from the centrifical
to exist, to explore
to find friction
to spark each other,
to take form.
A fine line
separates
us from hellbent collisions.
When breached, lips frequent
cursing the gift,
though hexed
by someone
having rejected
taking form.
Driven by desire
to be the infinite
rock, plowing through the roadway
of every soul.
Trying to shovel up
and anchor, cement
everyone
to build what they'll still
never become.
I suppose I could reject
being weathered
by the wind.
Yes, by the rain, as well.
And by the run off, and all it's hell.
But then I'd also surrender the sun.
Surrender the touch of another.
The breathe of an intimate whisper,
I'd suffocate just to shout down.
But why would I do that?
And I won't.
For shape is a gift,
and that is how
I've taken form.
The breathe of an intimate whisper - Oh, feel it.
Be still inside and listen
to your movement,
to you taking form.