Fistful of Knowing

Poetry by The Irrational Sage

What are words, but letters
What are letters, but shapes
What are shapes, but lines
Whare are lines, but ink
Ink moved by fingertips
an instrument for weaving
thoughts hitchike on by
but the hitchhiker is let out of the vehicle in one way or another
words must come out of the mouth or on the page as not to smother
as not to pile up inside, never alchemized by fear of casting spells
but the spell is still cast if not shared, only turned around unto you
So be mindful of what you are allowing inside, to dwell…and brew?
for holding on and holding it all in, never letting out the words that live within….
like dusty furniture in a storage container or a boat that never sails
will not take root to look back upon and reminisce with fondness, wondrous tales
because you know what you know
it lives at the tip of your tongue
it rests inside the palm
it waits for your creation
for you to play the drum
with the rhythm of words
colored onto paper
shouting inside a hum
scribbled into a painting
sung into an ear
written in the wind
floating, always near
take that fistful of knowing
and turn it into an opening
let was is meant to pass, go
let it live by the words spoke
let it dance across the pages
let your life be one for the ages…

You hold your whole world inside your hands, will you clench it into a fist or embrace the knowing? Lines woven…a unique fingerprint waiting for you to reach out and touch all that passes upon the path…a chance to let truth radiate or hold on tight in fear.

With love and gnosis,
~ Angela Morris
The Irrational Sage