Spilled Ink (Currently undergoing updates.)

j-r-morgan:

Though her breasts had grown pronounced

and wrinkles had begun to bless the creases of her smile,

though her skin was no longer soft as baby’s flesh,

slightly worn, she remained the eternally dreaming child.

And he was never too fond of sleeping children,

unable to understand the images they conjure.

He lacked all appreciation for their wonder.

She had such a refined neck

for someone with eyes so full

of unbridled curiosity.

Eyes that watched as he

ran from the approaching

clouds of storm.

Leaving her gazing at a veiled moon,

seconds from drowning in all the

questions she had no answers to.

The most flooding of them all-

“Will I ever be loved in return?”

But perhaps she was already.

I believe the morning birds

sing their song about her,

a tune of sunlit gratitude.

They sing to her as

she walks through the trees

plucking her lofty melody

along her wooden guitar strings.

Whether she notices or not,

the loving limbs of the willows

are eagerly reaching for her,

wanting to embrace her golden

gaze as a fiery sun sets.

Willing to coddle her

until her soul emanates rest.

It is her cozy sincere presence in the hills

which convinces the winter snow to melt.

Each step she makes she hopes to leave a

footprint for him, one that he will trace.

Though he will never bother,

the teeming steams graciously will

as they excitedly begin to run.

Rejuvenating crystal waters

chase her hoping to embrace her.

They just want a touch, a droplet,

as they flow from the valleys she

reconnoiters and into the church

steeple she has long left behind.

Perhaps this is what it will take,

an inundated moment of

relinquishment, a deluge

to cleanse out these pews

and her caked with blood

and mud eyelids.

Perhaps then she will

be able to sit still in silence,

able to listen because

she can finally believe.

She can have faith

in even the unanswerable

shadows, because sunlight

has every potential to shed.

She can have faith

in all the perplexing enigmas

who reach paradoxical ends.

She can have faith

in all that she can not know

because there is one thing

she can be sure of and learn.

            That the birds, at least, are

            surely singing their songs to her.

            And even if someday they ever

            stop and she can no longer

            hear their essence in the air

            I hope that she will remember these words,

            that I am here in this moment,

            writing for and about her.

You are exquisite my dear <3

J.R. Morgan

January 1, 2012