The knowing dances into me, gritty and wild, through open eyes and willing tongue. I taste the veracity shards you hide under a shroud of silken lies. Something is rotten. For a spell, my eyes consider weeping for the worms you boiled before they could become moths. Then I remember: liquid mourning cleanses, but rarely fixes a thing. So my soul sucks in sadden salts, crafts them into living fuel, lets them burn for a better day. I don’t conceal what grows in me. I open my all, under the licks of moon and sun, and let you watch. You see naught.
a flame, in the dark,
breeding eternal summers,
rebirthing new hope
the wee notes…
– Silk is harvested by boiling the silkworm cocoon, or by blasting it with steam or hot air.
– Linked to Sanaa’s Prompt Nights (The Hidden Realm). Sanaa said that our contributions could refer to “a sanctuary or a safe haven where we like to retreat to when times are tough… to pen down the first thing that comes to mind when thinking about a hidden realm.” The first thing that came to my mind spoke of the inner not-so-hidden realms some of us must bring into being, in order to keep our sanity in today’s reality.