I notice my hand, almost as if someone else's - not at my feet, my soul looks there - but my eyes, for now, notice my hand - worn, weathered, scarred. It is calm now, resting. This hand has held new life, saved life, and oh yes - death. It has bled and been burned. It has been clenched in rage, and shaken with fury, it has been a welcoming port for the butterfly and dragonfly. It has been the vessel to express, and my demise.
But in this moment, it rests - embracing the crystal - 48 bordeaux, Chateau Latour. It doesnt matter really, not now. There was a time when it did.
The Rutland grandfather in the far corner is almost laughable, echoing reminders of its purpose, taking advantage that all else remains silent. My "time"- our "time", has ceased to be relevant. . .
The shadows have crept across the room -
And so it begins, inevitable I suppose - I have diverted my attention as long as I could. I often wish I could savor longer. Conscious focus shifts, it always does.
Slowly, reverently - I place my glass on the stand - yes, I am aware, dear angel, I am always aware.
It is time to embrace the sweetest, most precious . . .
We are both home, arent we?
Morning daydreams put to paper.