3.7.10

freedom. i had the chance. i had escaped twice from the grip of soft hands, stifled passion, firm lips. i had put on the collar in my heart. but not my body. i had taken a number in the ante-room of freedom. and i waited, but no one called my number. i could have complained to the clerk, pestered at the counter, but instead, i sat straight, while a soft hand grasped mine. And I fell.

And now, freedom is an internal working. but then, perhaps i had been in the wrong line to begin with.

I've chosen a new line. I have my number, but I will wait little. If not chosen, I will seek another place. And if the divine cannot control his servants well enough to harvest me, he should beware. i may set up my own office. and i shall take all comers. and my greatness may become the greatness we sought for.

the fields are white. There are few workers. Do we need a thresher? Shall i be the miller and the stone and the pay collector? And from the chaff, perhaps I shall spin gold for vestments.

3.7.10

skimming. scraping. i'm the cantaloupe of god. he scrapes and scrapes my fruit away. seeds and pulp long gone. i'm little more than skin. dry. dusty. not worth fodder for swine. soon, even it, i, will be gone. feast over. scraps gone to mulch.

i am truly nothing. a vapor, a spirit, ghost of a ghost. with nowhere to haunt. i look at the banquet set for others. the king enjoying the last of my fruit. he does not bother to wipe his beard of my juice.

and i swoon. a forgotten puff of dust on a rough plank floor.