When spirits open their doors,

This makes for beautiful time.

Rich, yellow, laughter,

Lilac, soul, wander.

The air of completed sentences

(The said, the seen)

Twinkles with a lightness

Any heart

(The bruised)

Any heart

(The becoming)

Any heart may hold on to.

Any heart may hope to set their bed,

Plaster familiarities on the walls,

Flood the closets with old burdens

And call this

Home.

Any heart may wish to hold on to the

       Art of the spirit being

in all its promise of life and lightness.

Yet dare to draw lines around a spirit,

      Dictate its motion

And watch it wither with strange certainty.

The spirit was not made for certainty.

It does not belong in cages.

Wander, Wonder.

Originally written for a friend of mine the day before her birthday,
Someone whose presence in my life I consider very spiritual.
Later that day, I realised this poem may have been born of my thinking around a habit of mine:
To do something I love,
Say to someone (my internal monologue or another) that I am doing something I love,
And my commitment to said lovely thing vanishes very soon after.
While I may have been writing this for a friend, it seems to have been for me.
Seems to have been a self-invitation to life and lightness,
In all its uncertainty.

by anuarite.

15th Dec 2020.