I have taken up my nightly running habit again. The first night, I believe it was by the grace of God I ran without fail for an hour. I needed it. I needed the feeling I got from it. I felt Him around me. I felt Him pressing down on me, not oppressively, but to bind me up in a tight comfort. I have felt a drying up in me for awhile. I felt a jolt of something, running, that this wasn't the end, but a beginning. When I woke up in the morning, my legs were a mess of sore discomfort. To go down the stairs was a bit of a trial. But it was good, the reminders of an awakening.
I listen to lots of different music when I run. I detest songs with cellophane lyrics; my husband will tell me how he likes a song, and I will say, "But what is it about?" Anyway, some certain lines in songs call to me, and something blossoms from them. Sometimes it something happy, sometimes it is strange and lonesome, but it is definite parts of something that comes from a source that isn't all dried up after all.
"This can't be the bitter end." - Silversun Pickups
the end it marks
the last of the
movie reel when the
stiff film noisily flicks
about the projector
rousing drunkards from
a thin sleep and young
loves from touching anxious
fingers in moments of pulsing
light it is the end a dark
mark of punctuation that
a forlorn student strikes
away with an eraser drowned
in saliva it is a concentration
a close of an era a mark
on the wall of time
staccato a caveman drawing
a rough human figure and then
becoming extinct this end
this termination a pink slip in
the pocket of a listless
man this conclusion of
events the children file
off stage at the end of
their pageant and mothers
crane their necks to see
their children in the
spotlight just one more time
when youth drains away and leaves
a brittle shell of skin overlaying
bone a taut drum that
beats beats beats
as the sun descends into
the mouth of a bleeding horizon
is it the end a pulling up of events
into a tiny place
a dot on the slide
of a microscope something
to marvel at an oddity that
only exists frozen on a
pane of glass
