voice of miranda

(journal: part three. haphazard lines from a mind hazy with the flu.)

lending self with the right sorts of folk, busy minds and quiet souls, tucked in corners,
whispering in their own ears, fervor, syllables,
scream from the bottom, speak to coals – a dance with flames
go ahead, hit the strings – violin, heart, guitar – paintmeapicture without the color red

i have been curled up for too long, haven’t i? too soft, haven’t i? where had i gone, haven’t i?

their blood on our tongues, remember: there are no games to play when people are dying
their blood on our hands, we sat down for a moment, breathed out softly, mother’s crying

wherearethestories without a crimson shade to be found

finding doors to the right sorts of homes, the nurturing hearts, gentle hands,
standing prone wild minds, pasts scraped onto plates – it does not matter
we were all empty once, all seeking once…

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