who's reflection is this i see staring back at me.... forged in the flames of adversity whispering ink leaking past blots scarlet threads woven intricately through portals of complicity machinations of another time and place laced within roots of strangling tendrils mutated pretty posies succumb to history dancing round the fire of life's indignities
Past instances sometimes hang on like parasites and often cloud us, our judgement, our self worth. Push on Frieda. The cold will always darken our moods but when you see the light follow it.
It is a dance indeed and the fire is very hot...
What else could one do? Lie down and melt away or wander off into the cold darkness?
I think you have it right here Frieda!
You are the personification of dignity, my dear friend and muse. History is a scary place to visit, maybe that's why we don't heed it, and ultimately burn ourselves by repeating it. I'm sure the circumstances surrounding this write were not ideal, but I do sense perseverance in these words, which I hope is a sign of things to come. You may be away from us these days, but you're never alone. Love and hugs to you...xo
If you want to know me, read my poetry, it's all in there. I am a mother of three sons (my finest moments) a sister, a survivor and a little bit crazy. I lost my beloved sister to suicide, so you'll.. more..