I swore once
that there was a magic in desire
that could give flight to creatures born without wings.
I levitated on this feeling once.
But butterflies are all but a forgotten memory.
For all I have are dreams of what has yet to be;
for that is all I will let be.
Here, amidst the soil of this savage garden,
I have come to fear the thorns of every flower
from the times that I have bled,
I am intoxicated by the scent.
And this love would bloom if only I would fetch the water,
But I am not a gardener.
– I. G A L L O W S
July 15th, 2012