Surrender is a choice, I like to think
made in dusky rooms, with outstretched palms and crowded sweaty limbs.
Give it up.
I want to know, you, more.
I wonder if the ultimate denial of the self is handing it away, wrapped crisply, if only it were that easy. Which the purest of goals is freeing of want and jurisdiction
how then does the marionette feel: despair, or the freedom of constraint?
Raw knees, a sticky-pus epidermis, stinging with scraggles of red. Raw soul,
a different sort of corporal pain—a post-unbolt numbness, some hot fickleness still in trusting like a blind man.
How to believe that He knows best:
– field grass, clothed
– birds with full bellies
– lilies unlaboring
– youthful upturned heads, softly illuminated, singing.
Isabella – 7/2/2016