The lungs weigh heavy, bearing down upon the torso and spine like sacks of clay. Motionless and full of soot and somber. Like abandoned, ill-treated children.
Skin pulls in and tears in tiny places unseen but felt, piercing outwards into limbs.
Sinew becomes fatigued with the burden of holding carriage all on it's own.
Breasts ladened with, sit like dead stones atop a mountain of defeat.
And the neck burns with a memory of regret and humility that won't die.
Sitting upright becomes a chore that feels unfamiliar and new, as if one has not already done this an entire lifetime?
Grief, like an illness, permeates the body in strange ways, taking one asunder as it tries to itself lift up and walk forward.
Sitting with this body, watching it sway and alter to find that place of peace, while notes sift into the air, I feel the blood grow quieter, the heart begins to listen. A quiet mood falls over the night, taking one deeper into a solemn place of contemplation and sadness.
Acceptance at a point, is inevitable albeit painfully difficult.
What is it like to walk without toppling over from one side to another?
How does the owl sit so calmly while seeing everything?
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