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Our memories lurch to a reluctant halt in their funeral march, so I can pour salt over them one last time.

Stephanie Briar

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Death Funeral Memories Oneself Time

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I don’t know how to put my love down, or to keep holding too much of it.
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We usually seek the divine in the sky, But religion is best found on the ground. Nature is our true creator.
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Emotion = Energy in motion.
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I fall headlong into everything that lights me on fire. I know not of restraint. I was born to burn.
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How do you sleep soundly, knowing you traded roses for weeds?
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As if flesh and skin and hands are any match for bullets. As if bones won’t crack in hails of powder and lead. As if rivers of blood are not the direct result of trigger fingers that bend but do not break on “bad days”.
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The stars are where we came from. They orchestrated our return to the place we can always come home: our ancient, timeless love.
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Last night, I sent you home with a kiss and a promise. I hope you still believe in roses.
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To the oppressed with no seat on the table; dreaming of change and better days, I will pull up a chair, and light fires in your name.
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Let yourself go a little wild, a little rough around through the edges; the human spirit wasn’t meant for carefully-curated perfection.
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Creatives are neither born nor created. They are activated.
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I am a phoenix living in a culture of vultures.
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When you focus on directing your energy away from harm and toward healing, you feed the soul and starve the ego.
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In the absence of you I look to the moon and pray that the stars light my way, too.
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He’ll keep some daying and tommorwing until he has no tomorrows left. I don’t choose that.
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Can hope bloom in the shade? Can time give back what it takes away? I once saw the answers to life in your eyes; now I can remember the words to goodbye.
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