Time fleshes to baskets,
bound with pleasure and pain,
like neurosis, tightly woven.
Pain constricts the warp,
pleasure loosens the weave.
Tangled, they hold memories;
yet with tears, but a sieve.
Droughtless sponges
rooted to the well of souls.
Too many insecured,
blanch to dryness, desert.
Without as within.
Feel the emotion
to water
paradise.
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Droughtless sponges
rooted to the well of souls..i like how you woven inner and outer world together here..
Baskets with loose weaving can’t hold the finer elements which poor through as we vainly try to collect what we know won’t satisfy.
thanx for making me think
That’s what we do for each other…a food fight for thought.. 🙂