Awash

some souls can’t be reached from here. It isn’t planned that way, it just becomes. doors are opened, doors are closed we seldom see a fish swim backwards more than several feet. perhaps they just tread water until their stream rolls by. bells never stop mid-swing, mid-ring, mid-everything. rain falls upward in weeping dreams souls fall down awkwardly awakened by what many call their life. I want to paint a broken cup, to make it whole but flowers don’t un-grow they simply die or maybe not so simply after all. We’re all caught up in the wiggle and grin of lives held together by what’s called a “safety” pin. when there’s nothing really safe about you after all.