Becoming
Written by Sam Rawlings on Tuesday the 30th of November 2010
Feels as if the universe itself has stooped to listen,
helpless but to wait with me...
...for so slow have become the swaying trees,
the ocean's once crashing teeth.
During each period of silence the soil haves as chests do beneath my feet.
A pilgrimage of smoke as I smoulder;
the dissolution of my limbs as I dare to reach, elevate beyond the ashen shadows already beginning to dilate under the beautiful glow of your wings.
The days and the nights,
each sun, each moon:
footsteps;
footprints.