August 31, 2010 § Leave a comment

“And all the traffic lights blur, into a bright bouquet, my heart is in mothballs, it’s been packed away, and I can’t get to it, no way, until the birds return for spring cleaning.”

Mine too.

When I was wee, we would break into deserted buildings and houses strangled by nettles and untended rosebushes. We found false teeth, abandoned wheelchairs, crucifixes, faeces, bedraggled net curtains, chairs with stuffing strewn half over the bare floorboards.

And there was mystery, I breathed it. In and out. Easier to live a fantasy than reality.

I miss that nest. I need a good dose of medicinal magic.

A spoonful of sunsets keeps the tax inspector at bay. Sometimes.

If the wolf comes sniffing at my door, I’ll send out my wild goose for a chase.

I miss you, magic.

And yet I’m terrified to touch you again, I don’t want to return my head to its prison of clouds. I need some balance. I can’t deliver on decisions. Retreat.


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