What do we have in beauty; a closed mouth, a stillness? Perhaps this is our own envy. Trapped in moving bodies within the dazzling barrage of our own ideas, in "peace"- we are incapable of a silence we murder with every realization that within we are "finally still."
The gazelle and the gymnast
the ballerina, the acrobat,
the birds and nighttime highways,
the crashing of the shores- all
with speed, and yet, their noise
is the sound of grace, amplified
with thier bodies, to be heard
with our souls- Some beauty
is the overflow of stillness,
the simplicity of being, now- a donation
to ease the dissonance
of all my roaring notions.
Can we carry them inside of us? If the soul were a cage, we might- but how do you feed a gazelle if it lives inside your heart? How might a highway run out of you, the smog bringing you to tears? Our souls feel too small to keep an army of beautiful figures.
A tiny piece of you, and you, you slowly add its layers as you learn what you learn about all its secret rooms, keys found in silence- from the highway when you listen, to the blur of her movements, and mostly from the way your eyes scan the horizon for them- a key will be revealed. Where your mouth stays lip to lip, instead of teaching; you may find another one between your clenched teeth. Even the stupid woman with the annoying accent who looks at you all queer, she has one in her pocket. In the waiting room, a child draws a map to one more. A hurricane destroys your home and look, in the basement, there it was, all along!
Look, I promise you. You'll get the hang of it. You'll see them everywhere. You won't even have to try. Then your heart can trap the whole world inside of it, and you won't even want to.
-e.
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