poems, inspirations and random thoughts

a cut
fragile skin
‘what do you hold?’
paper thin
speckles of dust
***
she looks down
in the space that sits her heart
-‘who defines the edge of me?’
she asks
***
a glass sits on her desk
filled to the brim
with clear water
‘what do you hold?’
she asks,
-the sea
–the clouds
—the rain
***
is it the cells, the bones, the veins
the heart, the breath
-breathing
–‘where am I in all of this?’
***
is it the elbow leaning against the table
the ear listening to a distant voice
maybe the thought of a cup of green tea
-who defines the edge…
–the edge of me?
she tilts her head towards the horizon
her eyes find the crescent
a pause
***
**
*
how far is a step
when edges are no longer defined by me?…