This can't be all there is for life. But our lives get greedy.
Hill folk understand. The very wealthy understand.
You told me that you know it's too late now.
I don't know what late is anymore.
I know there is a moon, a chunk of old soap, and it's hovering in the sky. It sees all of us.
It can get us very clean if we sit beneath it for awhile.
You took a groveling dive into lilies and volcanic rock. You may have hurt yourself, but
I've decided not to care anymore.
A rainy smell of cold, wet grass and truth - fact maybe, more understated and placid
than truth - is all there is to hold. I feed on it.
The tenuous nature of this experience lives inside that smell.
You were in the center of it exploring, but now you are pages back
where the sidewalk ended, where blacktop turns to grass.
I'm still on the sharp, sweaty, living side. You chose to live somewhere
that changes temperature with the sunlight and wind, but its inherent nature is static, stoic.
You chose, rather, to die.
I'm through with cowardice. And I am here to be seen.
Read more of Bria's work on her website.