begin again

deep down into the crevices way below the surface of life and meaning,
way down,
where the river of fire burns and erupts with turmoil and frustration,
pulsing,
churning,
growing with the wildness of mustangs long left on the open plains without water and peace of mind,
with relaxation and stimulation a blown away dust fragment,
sun baking the pink white of emotions into a charred lump of coal,
black,
blacker than the night with no fireflies,
no moon,
no distant light of encouragement,
silence cloaking the fields and outcroppings,
silence loud and thunderous,
water heavy with salt and sediment,
drowning,
drowning the hopes and dreams,
drowning the helpless victims of unnoticed crimes against the soul,
against the grain that holds the land together like pieces of yarn strung along the wet sand,
slowly washing out to sea with a wisp of foam,
deep down to the caves of darkness where passion used to be but no longer can raise its head,
see a smile or breathe in fresh air,
passion engulfed by the flaming desire of the burn,
sensations smoldering and flickering,
beneath,
beneath the dark waters hidden in the slurry of realization,
passion climbing fast and hard,
upward,
upward toward the light of desire and contentment,
clawing fruitlessly at the slow erosion of time and distance,
eyes closed,
hope bursting with absolution,
passion beginning to kindle,
ready to burst forth with freedom and fright,
into a world cloaked in layers and layers of translucent cloth,
spun from rules and tied to the post,
waiting for the release.