how

A poet's meanings are never clear and the author's heart is hidden. the ink that bleeds, the veins in paper, the heart of soul that beats. what gives life to words? what fills their shells with flesh and blood? is it passion? is it tears? is it thought or time? what puts the beating heart inside? what makes the meaning flow? how does the hope and despair, the life and the death, the wonder and blindness happen? how does the ink stained author pour reality into fantasy? how do they make you feel another's pains and joys, how do you breathe at the same pace as they? how do you hear the cries of their soul louder than your own? how can letters and words, mere ink stained in patterns, portray a whole life or a whole other world, when we, here, can't even understand our own? what makes this wonderment possible? what gives black and white figures life?
there must be reasons, there must be answers. how? how? how does the sun stay where it is? how does the lover know that he loves? how does the ocean hold its self in? how does the bird decide to come down from the sky? how does the dreamer find her dreams? how does the snow stay white and how does the rainbow bend? how does this questioner never want answers and how can the earth really spin? where is the answer to all these things? I think the book must be burned, for while some answers are sacred others are blasphemy.
the sun sets so early this time of year, which I suppose is kind of sad, but one good thing is that, the sky is always a beautiful color.

I want to fly away on my Pegasus, galloping, flapping, floating,
across a powder blue-berry peach-purple sky.
I want to shake the down blankets, the watch it gently snow,
on all of the resting little train-town below.
I want to harvest candy canes and build a castle by the sea,
I want to hold a ball in my candy cane castle, right next to the sunshine sea.
I want to dance and paint sugar plums so that all of the world can spy,
me fly away on my Pegasus across the powder blue-berry peach-purple sky.

I wrote all of this in my journal earlier, with a dip-pen, I think it was for that reason I was unable to stop. I hope you all have a beautiful Thanksgiving or just a beautiful week.

Love,
Clara