Writing the spirit (written in workshop with Linda Hoy)

The dark place, the deep place,
The heart of the matter.
It pulses, it throbs,
It bleeds and it sobs.
It whispers and sings
And trickles through veins,
Infusing the whole
With it’s soul.

The delicate vessel,
So small, vulnerable,
Shows no sign of movement,
No hint of the volume,
The tide that is filling and spilling
And crashing inside. The deafening roar,
The thunder, the whirlwind, it rages contently
Within soundproof walls.

The flush and the blush are discreet,
Public secrets. They’re blood on a red rose,
They’re screams in a cyclone.
The essence, the core, is everywhere,
Nowhere. It silently shouts to be heard
And ignored.