Sandcastles from the Badlands of the Living

To bring something out, of the pain, to carry, small handfuls of sand, bearing, one load at a time, to make something, Baring Beauty, from the dust and the ash.  Gives us a sense, a scent, a touch, of Heaven.  Here.  In the land of the living.  And I need a touch from Heaven.  Today.

So today, this day, I am, bringing out something, and building Sandcastles.  From the Badlands of the Living.

Down in the depths, in the darkness, in the tombs, in the Deaths of Its, I walk.  Into the Badlands of the Living, where words, my tiny pieces of sand, are difficult to extract.  Into the mine fields of my mind, I get lost, where my stories, my small handfuls of sand, hide.   In the muck, I traverse, into the trenches of internal trauma that are long, and narrowing, and harrowing.  To be carrying, I am bearing, these loads.  Scooping them up in my hands, these somethings, this mess of words, these scoops of sand in my hands.  That my stories, of the pain, that are tiring, me.  Might be seen.  In the Light.  I will walk.  Willing, to get lost, in the wilderness, I will traverse, the treacherous.  For these treasures, for these words, that must, be plucked, bare handed, by my bruised and bloodied knuckles, from the mire.  And i drop.  So much.  Along the way.

Stories of a broken heart.  Are chopped up by the pain.  They get stuck in the muck in the mire, of the mind, and are covered in the dust, of the past.  They live, these stories, in the tombs.  In the Deaths of Its.  Tiny Grains.  Are buried.  In the wee small hours of the mourning, place, in the soul.  Where broken heart stories.  Still.  Will.  to Live.

Extricating stories of whats, whens, whys, hows.  Leaves me.  Despairing.  Because it means me.  Going back.  Down there.  In here, again.  But I will harry.  To carry.  Out remnants, specks of sand, that are scarred into my hands, of time, in the tombs.  I go back, to mine it, for, more.  Sand.  

But I do often ask myself

why?

keep?

Building Sandcastles

when they're usually just blown away

by the north winds?

Why?

Begin Again?

When I can just give up,

blow this speck, of sand, scarred into my hands,

dust this dust from my palms,

wipe this ash from my feet,

shake It off into the wind?

Be done

with It

And walk away?

Leave It

Buried

In the past.

In the tombs?

And the Answer.  Embraces me.  And I know.  There's something.  Lovely.  Baring Beauty.  When I am building Sandcastles from the Badlands of the Living.  That keeps me.  Picking up the sand, letting it sift, through my wrinkled hands.  There's something.  Healing.  That comforts me.  As I walk, back in, beginning again.  There's something.  Taking my hand, pulling me, along, taking sand from that place and moving it, until It's gone, from there, and moved, out here.  In the Light. 

As I AM.  Building Sandcastles. From the Badlands.  Baring Pain.  Always leaves me.  Baring Beauty.  Feeling.  A Touch.  Of Heaven.  Today.

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