the kite.

so what started off as an aimless journal, and turned eyes to the hope of spring, to high moving cloud, to the dip of paddles in a frigid lake. what turned to a cry for the abandoned landscape and the suffering race. what turned to the opening of the heart and the longing for some lost connection somewhere between the aim and the arrow. in appreciation for the creation and the ones who give us life. to the hurt of many who lose hope in the first hours of the day, the romance of fear and freedom in a time of non existence. what started out as a journal, to draw lines on the weather. what drew paths to the sea which was terrifyingly real. 

which grew calm

with the window closed.

to the colour of the soul, which was blue in the warmest of light. where thoughts with weapons drawn, shot holes in the walls of what we had known as love. which lead to flight of the mind so carefully veiled. now just a bulletin board for earthen poems. 

it gives me rest to know you where here.