WHAT SURVIVES
Who says that all must vanish?
Who knows, perhaps the flight
of the bird you wound remains,
and perhaps flowers survive
caresses in us, in their ground.
It isn't the gesture that lasts,
but it dresses you again in gold
armor -from breast to knees-
and the battle was so pure
an Angel wears it after you.
--Rainer Maria Rilke
If it were the last time, perhaps I won't cry. I won't want to let those tears mar my vision. Suck out the soul and leave behind an empty, cavernous shell. Step into the August night and perhaps you'll find what you're looking for. Venture away from doubt and confusion, let the darkness envelope you. Warm velvet. Tea leaves that swirl in transparent brown liquid. Bitter - aftertaste included. (Predict my future, oh clairvoyant?) Roses and rubble. Coffee and chaos. Pristine waters, unshrouded cyan. Play on that seesaw. Up and down, repeat. Revel in indecisiveness and ambivalence. Let yourself be thrown around by fate, put yourself in the hands of an empyrean being, and just. float.
Vanessa Lim 4:52 p. m.
