The Clue

Our love is words woven over scar tissue

Photo by Jon Tyson on Unsplash

Our love is words woven over scar tissue
Hearts preserved in salt from too many tears shed
In thrall to the questioning life we vowed to pursue.

Night plays out as a vacant dream, morning stings anew
While in our arms we gather bonded minds that bled
Our love is words woven over scar tissue.

Between the lines we always sow a clue
May it bloom and dispel the pain of the unsaid
In thrall to the questioning life we vowed to pursue.

We write balancing bridges between the self and the you
So shared visions might have somewhere to tread
Our love is words woven over scar tissue.

Through your poetry and my prose our darkness withdrew
We are the resolution our hearts and minds made
In thrall to the questioning life we vowed to pursue.

From dreams life becomes true
Our children of ink and paper spread
Our love is words woven over scar tissue
In thrall to the questioning life we vowed to pursue.

“I dream of a new age of curiosity. We have the technical means for it; the desire is there; the things to be known are infinite; the people who can employ themselves at this task exist. Why do we suffer? From too little: from channels that are too narrow, skimpy, quasi-monopolistic, insufficient. There is no point in adopting a protectionist attitude, to prevent “bad” information from invading and suffocating the “good.” Rather, we must multiply the paths and the possibilities of coming and goings.”

Michel Foucault

I’m a French-American writer, journalist, and editor living out of a suitcase in transit between North America and Europe. To continue the conversation, follow the bird. For email and everything else, deets in bio.

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