Shams' Muse

medieval school medieval art medieval medicine medieval death medieval medieval no poem

I see Alexandra everywhere. Every person, you are Alexandraa, and Alexandra, you are every person. So it goes with friends who aetherize. They are not made of the same fire, air, water, earth. Their bodies may be, but their spirit, that is more in the minds. Imagined, created, and so never there. I recreate you, Alexandra, when I talk to someone else, who has a sameness of appearance, and impose a sameness of spirit. For a moment, it is as if you are there.

Envy, ever around my neck, choking me with your poison. My throat turns blue when I can't spit you out, hissing as you burn the floor. Envy for the space to put all these books, these treasures, that will otherwise end up given away and I regret their leaving, my orphaned books for lack of shelf space. How ever can I decide to keep Kafka or Tolstoy, Orwell or Lem. Books I may only ever open once to read, but delight in seeing their smiling covers, smiling at me, remembering our time together. To have such space as I can have bookshelves. Now that would be something.

I want to dive in, but why must I dive down? I want to fly up, and spread my wings wider, wider, Icarus.

I suck the pulp from the orange and the peel stings the corners of my mouth with its pesticide laden bitterness. There was a time when I ate oranges right from the trees and plucked them from the branches just as they fell into my hand. I never lived in Florida, but there is a picture of me with a blue macaw, somewhere in a photo album. I don't remember oranges like they are today, but I also don't remember you like you are today.