Cours, Cora, cours / Journal d'un loup-garou

Cours, Cora, cours

Journal d'un loup-garou

Journal d'un Loup-Garou

alépok

Erotica Veronica

Love Wants Me Dead

EURO-COUNTRY

Janis Joplining

Triste Animal

Valse frustrée

New Radiations

Light Years

Lemonade Moonlight2.mp3

How is hot and the sun burns today,
Like ginger, what I see on my plate.

All is past, can repeat it again,
Ginger’s sun may tell to the same.

Where’s a life that existed before,
Look around, stones and stories, no more.

It’s a chance, take this wise in your way,
Ginger’s sun was the same in Prometheus days.

My marmelade was tasty, only ginger too much,
Even tears came out, orange juice saved my lunch.

Match-head dawn on the sill, small fire learns to stay,
backyard breath on the grill of a brand-new day.
I stole one spark from the dark of the night I knew,
held it cupped in a hush till the hush burned through.
Every step has a seam where the tender splits,
every word has a wheel with a missing bit.
If you’ve never worn winter inside your bones,
don’t call a glacier rain just to sound well-known.

You say you “get it,” but your echo’s thin,
a key-shaped sentence with no teeth to spin.

Oh I see, you see, you know, enough to tell me so;
tell me you know exactly what it’s like to walk this hike so slow.
Maybe after all you say it’s “better off this way”,
you think that’s balm, but it’s a calm that sweeps the truth away.
You know what I think? I think that’s something said to speak,
absence dressed in syllables, the meaning left complete,
ly missing. Every utter shaped like a heart,
breaks my will in little shards and pulls the shape apart.
Crumbs on a trail where you fail, fail to see:
this is not empathy.

Hearth-math, child-path, schoolyard oath and skinned-knee grace,
lemon peel in water glass, sun-lines on a face.
Calcine sorrow down to ash, let what’s false combust;
sublime a breath, distill a truth, precipitate a trust.
Coagulate the scattered bits, let mercy make a whole,
salt the rim of what you say so words can keep their soul.
If you haven’t held a night that bit back twice,
don’t call my furnace “warm” and then advise.

Don’t lay a blanket phrase on a burning floor,
if you won’t wade in, don’t name my shore.

Oh I see, you see, you know, so easy said, so neat;
but comfort speaks in circles when the center’s heat.
“Maybe it’s better this way”, you lay that line like gauze;
the cloth looks kind, but underneath is pause.
You say it just to say it, just to smooth the room,
a perfumed nothing drifting like a plume.
Each tender-looking, heart-shaped part you start
tugs seams and makes a lace of me, then tears the lace apart.
Crumbs on a trail where you fail, fail to see:
this is not empathy.

Home is a crucible; love is a law;
ethos and telos in the ember I saw.
I keep a coal for the cold and the small,
not for display, not to prove I won’t fall.
If you would listen, listen like hands,
not like a mouth rehearsing its plans.

Promise is a promontory, windy and high,
you don’t bring flags there, just a quiet “try.”
Bring your bucket, fetch the well, sit near the stove;
learn the work of tending what you say you love.
Ask for the story, then carry a side,
don’t hold the lantern only for the pride.
If the ache repeats until you finally hear,
it’s not the ache that’s cruel; it’s the borrowed ear.

If you can’t step in, at least don’t steer,
let silence learn its shape from staying near.

Oh I see, you see, you know, if knowing means you’ll stay;
walk the long, long hill beside me, match my breath and sway.
Maybe after all we say, we’ll find a better way,
not better for the story, better for the day.
Speak only what you’ll shoulder, let the empty go;
hollow comfort kills the spark we need to grow.
If your words wear hearts, then let them beat with me,
or say no words and keep good company.
Crumbs on the trail become bread if we eat,
break it with me; that is empathy.

I promise: you do not know what hell on earth is like.
And if you want to help, bring water, stay, and strike the light.

Not every blaze needs speech to live; let quiet hands apply.
Where talk would steal the oxygen, breathe close, and keep me by.

promethean promise

Sad Songs are for Sad Days

America

Cours, Cora, cours

Lou-Adriane Cassidy

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