҉　 c l a r i s s a a v a l o n

　 ҉　 　 ҉　 　 ҉　 What is my medicine? It is not the scroll or anything sharp. It is not mothering or excess. I often think it is to lay, stay still, but eventually the crust builds, uneaten & then i am unmovable to even god. But a Thing has ended, whatever thumb had pressed down uniquely at the squash beginning of my feelings, lifted. I have found belief in myself grotesque & eager, but the hand now smacks me awake, lets me know my use of sleep, food, body is dumb, & pulls me by my britches from the sloppy path of my fear. Look out the window & pull a card. be blind & full of mirth if it means you are friends with life. It matters when it needs to. Let the youth of bravery die its death, not meaning the antithesis of fear & age, but instead, the backpack housing alternatives to pain. Refusing to belittle whatever look my little space takes, making it a meal time gong call to the hungry self. By Jove! I will listen & i will remember to ease into my dreaming & my making