"...feed the weeded garden that be my soul."

©brokenimagery

The wind blows through my hair, kisses my cheek, and embraces my spirit. My bruised body, and it's marks and burns absorb its healing power. 

Memories start to trickle down in the thin and weak droplets of rain,  just hard enough to highlight scars and stories that are permanently branded on this thing I call my body- it's kind of more like a shell.

Fragile is a word I would've used in the past to describe this outer layer that I stand in. Dreams are becoming difficult to distinguish between what's reality and what's not. It feels like the more sleep I get, the more sleep deprived I feel. 

Old desires rest at the tip of every thought, as do they camp out at the dead end of my tongue- its stakes holding up the tint, forked into the thickness that be my verbal muscle...preventing the fighting chance I harbor, trapped none the less, in the core of my being.

So, rain droplets that fall so seldom, I yearn that you wash away the dirt that covers me, and the wind that kisses my cheek- that you may wisp away my self-imprisonment that has made me its home for so many years.

For this is the first time, that I hike up my boots, strap on my belt, and travel down a completely different road. Storms welcomed- may you clear my path and feed the weeded garden that be my soul.