( Dedicated to all my feathered friends, who chose to live between the earth and the sky, open to the ultimate Socratic question, why? – while they soar and fly)
Tonight is particularly challenging. I am incredibly ill. My chi/life-force feels like thick sticky sweet molasses in a glass jar. It captures thoughts and forms, like dishevelled feathers of a dead bird – dipping it into the shadowy indigo of molasses that attaches itself to it like a vampire and traps the life force in a drip-grip of no chi, no breath, only the unpleasant putrid smell of impending death.
My feathered friend of fear, ablaze in my rumbling heart, why do you burn my body, now drifting on a watery bed - a crimson crown of roses, smouldering on my head?
I float in an ocean, bleeding blushing flushing red, amidst fragments of words, shoddily unkindly said. I see her with my flowery crown, as she burns unspoken shadows of life, the feathered battles of strife. Ascend, my feathered friend, dive into the darkness of the night. Frida Kahlo, please hold me tight - I hear the music in your soul. I see my death in the glitter and gleam of your dream, which smells like burning red roses, hovering dangerously in the in-between.
Oh! feathers of fear
the final flight is so near
Lightly bird, lightly