Day 11: Untitled

Hope, he said it was a negative thing, that once transcended is only a bit of poison in the mind.
And I believed him, and still do, but I have not been so transformed; I have not so much risen from its need.
I need.
Meanwhile the moon, falling from roundedness, disappears and reappears behind the purple cloud. The sun will do as much today, I'm sure, since rain sang me to sleep all night, and there is a promise of more, and wind races around the rising morning.
Hope, it, too, rises and falls.
I look out at the purple cloud. Beacuse I have seen, I know the moon will come again, and that is knowing.
And I have seen and therefore know God, who stirs the clouds and wind, can hold up the sky while holding me safe. The man locked in an asylum for praying too loud is also safe. Somehow. Meanwhile the moon is still hanging outside the window, shyly winking, round and white, and the purple cloud is moving faster and I think away, leaving tiny holes from where her skin appears and reappears over and over like a tumbling of prayers from a hopeful mouth. Let that mouth always be mine.