Lauren B. Flax
CWS
Response
Powdered Inks & Budding Seeds
Nickolas A. Lotze
Inspiration Piece
Contrite it seems that I need to find a space in which I can breathe with lungs that don’t quiver when I freeze; a spirit crushed like the powdered inks mixed with water to paint the lines of separation in grids and degrees.
I ask, were we? I was not ready to deal with all the distant things stuck in time like a painting of sickly trees each with one green leaf sorely out of place simply craving to be.
Secretly wishing to make an amends with all the spirits that too soon found their ends, I stand; I demand ghosts half there and half aware to let go of living infatuations with having elations attributed by a special who, what and where.
I become just like a lonely dog lost in the streets with a home in its heart that seems so far apart from where it is now and where it needs to be.
In our heads we see a group of friends holding hands singing campfire hymns in hopes we can erase our sins or at least find resolution as the water rushes in, fills to the brim whilst we decide if we should sink or swim.
I try to break my own heart, try to wear myself thin, try to recommence just do it all over again; realize these analogies are without heart; I am of a blind congregation, playing my part.
My predictions are the only things I have and the only soil I can grow in; it might take two dozen years before I see the first budding seed but at least I know that it did come from me.
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