For my Golden Angel
Mi Estrella,
my calming breeze- renovating these tattered nerve endings of mine.
Window sills of sunlit succulents, who’s leaves later find strange solace in the melancholic grasp of nightfall’s tides; Tides comprised of rejuvenation and heightened emotion.
We break and rebuild as the old sky falls behind the horizonJust as surely as snow crunches and molds beneath the pressure of soles and folly.
The architects of our collective essence, born under some god to have soft handsnow cracked, soft voices- now heard, black & white thoughts- now prismatic, and fair skin- now weathered.
We stride up and onward with clasped hands and frantic thoughts; thoughts of keys and cadence, thistles on canvas, poems to paper, lips to lipswaiting for the day our actions catch our aspirations.
A poem by John Holloway 2018