Perhaps no one is a story.
\nThe past is myth,
\na brass cymbal striking time,
\nand we open like petals,
\ncome on the street like birds,
\nnewly formed,
\nand rise like hawks from the moment,
\nwith false histories.
\nPerhaps that is our story,
\nno story.<\/p>\n
It is the sound of the world
\nvibrating in the valleys,
\na new song,
\neach of us,
\ngiven to ourselves as a gift,
\ngiven to each other to find.
\nIf you doubt that you belong
\nto the moment,
\nthat the echo of the earth
\nrises in you,
\nwho has not before a mirror said,
\nthis has gone before,
\nthis has happened.<\/p>\n
I have been in this place,
\nor gone on that journey,
\nthen in the chamber of your new heart,
\nthere is an old ache.
\nIn your new soul,
\nan ancient devotion,
\nin words that come to you
\njumping from the wind,
\na refrain,
\nwritten on the page of an empty diary,
\nthat seems full.
\nAnd we fall in love
\nall over again,
\ntime after time,
\nnever having existed before.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"
Perhaps no one is a story. The past is myth, a brass cymbal striking time, and we open like petals, come on the street like…<\/p>\n