I keep on thinking about the body and about death and dying and how the landscape of memory changes...

Concerning the death of the body...

After the climax of loving, the body descends down into death. Observe the detritus of passion: how the walk deteriorates into a shamble, the body staggers in on itself, loses its balance, lets go of control.

You look into the mirror and see this ghost swallowed up in the quiver of flesh. And you wonder if the rolling hills of your belly, and the capsule of your thighs were ever anything more.

So the body descends into dying.

Into this chaos of disorderly mornings, into this uncoordinated movement of limbs, this surrender to “come what may”, and “it is as it is.” Sometimes, you’ll want to push aside the suffocation of being. The moment passes, and you remain trapped within this prison of eternal flesh.

Oh when will we learn to let birds fly?
When will we learn to free each other
from ties that bind?

You grow inside that ghost of you. Shiver inside the cell of self. You reach out your arms, stretch out your hands, flex your fingers, break through the form, tear through the flesh, shout down the wall, spring free from the cage, become –

this bird wanting to fly free
this self longing to be unbound
this spirit finding its wings...

And I'm thinking of how this is all still related to this and how all my tales of late, turn back to source this.