327: Ten Parts to My Heart


Artwork by Samantha Craft 2/10/13

Ten Parts
I have ten parts to my heart
Ten parts that you take
Ten parts that you watch for
Ten parts where I ache
The runner is heavy, her breath out of wind
You take her up gently, and lift her to end
The mistress is surly, and tangled a lot
You take her in softly, untie all the knots
The witness is worried, her song out of reach
You take her beside you, the music you teach
The loner is hope-drained, her view rather bleak
You take her hand kindly, and starlight you seek
The lover is awe-struck, her emptiness grows
You take her eyes to you, and mend all her woes
The child is spinning, her thoughts moving swift
You take her mind off things, and offer a lift
The seeker is weary, so much truth to be found
You take her ear tender, and whisper no sound
The actor is drowning, she’s pretending to be
You take her dreams with you, and set them all free
The poet is hiding, her heart severed in two
You take in her pieces, and make her anew
The angel is crying, her fears come again
You take her pain to you, and call her dear friend

~ Samantha Craft February 2013

326: The Soul of You


Blackened I am by the course of you running through my veins; your amber-scarlet blood penetrating the thoughts of who I am, when I know naught whom you be.

You move through me with energy of perfection, detangling me from my dream-state and honoring me with passion, unyielding and buried beneath the mysteries of this world.

I shake at the thought of you; your face deliberately erased; your motions scouring my insides; I glance upon your presence and feel lessened, my inherent goodness screaming to be seen beneath the brilliant shadow of your light.

Hold me I would beg, if holding would suffice, but you are no less man than me, a wisp of brilliance let out of lover’s door to set upon my soul-fed night; suffering I am, in the ring of fire you proclaim, suffocating to swallow, to breathe in a substance so divine.

I am not enough to know you, a dullness without touch. Nor am I enough to breathe you, my mouth agape wishing blindly.

I am suffocated by the wrath I be; myself the chariot charging and bludgeoning the hallowed spaces of soul, plowing the fields for none but you.

Though still you set upon me, young bird upon perch, nibbling at the feathers of your wings, singing into an immeasurable emptiness that need be me.

My own self betrays, wrapping itself layer upon layer in a clear film of un-discovery, for I want to be as the charming one, the one beneath the garden day, where you are made to sweep upon me golden petals for bedding.

For I am but one, in this whirlpool of music, confused trembling fawn, searching for your substance, laden with this sundering that enters time and time again.

Inside flame, I am burdened with deliberate desire, when all about door upon door be shut, the doorways blocked, the treasure hidden.

How does one harbor this grand symphony of sound, when one’s own eyes cannot harness your immeasurable form?

Is this your music, your warmth, your blood that swims within, or am I merely a collaboration of symbolic fluid, the essence pouring through as echos past?

Or am I more? This ghost herself, circulating through the soul of you.

Samantha Craft, February 2013

325: I Miss You


I miss you.
I miss you as the dancer without song, spun in a room of silence.
I miss you as the hermit without retreat, exposed and without solace.
I miss you as the captured without captive, unchained but forever haunted.
I miss you as the player without drum, hands in search of familiar substance.
I miss you as the gardener without rain, tear-filled eyes beseeching sky.
I miss you as the turnip without ground, plucked and slaughtered for the water that boils.
I miss you as the treasure without gold, disillusioned by the nakedness of finding.
I miss you as the barber without scissors, staring at an empty chair.
I miss you as the window without pane, hollowed and broken on the inside.
I miss you as the crow without mate, crying black soul in isolation.
I miss you as the plate without meal, serving nothing but streaked reflection.
I miss you as the tea without water, left in form without tangible purpose.
I miss you as the hunter without prey, circling in darkened sky for fill.
I miss you as the willow without leaf, dying without that sun that feeds.
I miss you as the words without page, thoughts lost in the swell of time.
I miss you as the climber without rock, left down in the valley of longing.
I miss you as the child without train, abandoned before journey begins.
I miss you as the woman without fingers, grasping with invisible ghosts.
I miss you as the blanket without babe, sweetness stolen.
I miss you as the knife without blade, cutting through nothing.
I miss you as the clock without hands, turning for no one.
I miss you as the star without night, shining without a holding space.
I miss you.
In all forms, in all shapes, in all ways, I miss you.
I miss you as the diary without key, locked away in secrets meant for you.
~ Samantha Craft, February 2013