Sunday, June 12, 2011

Sweat

Normally an item of control, the fountain has cracked. It begins with a drop from the bowels to a birth atop the crown of the head. Pushed from beyond, an icicle will melt under pressure. But such salt is not found in any old cave. Trails of dew, channels of sweat withdraw the mass, liquify the essence. Transcendence of enigmatic heat into castaway marbles. Such a thing is unworthy of conversation.

But to sit, to breathe. The ferocity of life found, proved in a leak. Smoothness of the purest sort has etched its way among the surfaces, surpassing the beauty of Excalibur, the wings of the Valkyries.

I have made a single bead, an army of beads, and in so doing I know I am alive. The stars in the sky can never hold such water. A sound mind is free to boast now and again.

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