nesting

i sit here looking at the nerves on my hands throb,
and yet it makes me smile softly as i see myself float back to my favourite place in spite of it all. 

this place. 

just me and my words - my voice. 

i'm back to spilling my soul and guts into alphabets and poetic word vomit. 

this is selfish. it is all i can do to save the mortal me, and the soul thread within it, that somehow tethers me to you. to the universe. in some strange intangible way. i write to show myself the path when i am lost, to guide that lost little one thats inside each of us, confused and dreading the journey - for it is bittersweet and ultimately ends in stardust. 

the technicolour stellar phantasma show of life that this is

and so 
this raven flies back to a familiar forgotten nest

to rest