Crawlspace

"Keep it goin' in me, wicked traveler 

 Fading farther from me, with your face in my window glow

Oh, where will you weep for me, sweet willow"

-Elizabeth Fraser & Jeff Buckley, All Flowers In Time Bend Toward The Sun (1994-1995), Unreleased

Van Gogh, Vincent. Irises. 1889. Saint-Rémy-de-Provence, France.

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    On barren and rugged shards of pebbles and sand, my knees drag relentlessly. Scrapes and wounds transform into funeral as wandering prayers flutter to the Heavens above me. And through the agony from dragging myself in a fit unforgiving determination, I continue to crawl in efforts to repent the sins that I didn't know I had committed. Eternally, I beg for an ounce of deserved explanation for the experiences that whip and lash within my mind and taunt the brief intervals of needed sleep. Where my reality transforms into the subconscious desert, it still replays in my mind, as if it's been superglued to my temples as a sort of mental dunce cap. My eraser cannot rid of the filaments from this page, for sand hides in the crevices of my blistering fingers (ones that were employed to touch the stars) and the crook of my aching neck (the foundation of my internal balance); but, I've become so delirious from continuous contrition that I could've sworn the stars in my eyes deceived me for a sense of familiarity. Beyond the coarse grains of sedimentary creation, there is credence that wilted violets exist in such a desolate region, locked and isolated from the comforts of home, while somehow persevering through a situation where hopes swing lower than the soil beneath our feet.

    Maybe this is a sign that everything will be okay; that there is love to push you in a cycle of continuous survival, against all odds.