Eleanore is

Eleanore is not
an angel or a ghost.

She’s not the voice
of your dead mother
or the leftovers
from yesterday morning’s
scrambled thoughts.

She is the echo
of an energetic imprint,
of a palm pressed flat
into quicksand,
the future’s constant ebbing
into past.

She is the beckon
of the moon, calling
to the tides to rise
and greet her.

She is who you
could see yourself
to be if you didn’t need
the safety
of time constraints.

Eleanore is not
some mystical mumbo-jumbo,
backpage psychic hotline,
newagehippiebullshit.

She is what you might hear
if your ear became
your body,
if you suckled the silence
like a tender new born.

If, in the whirlwind
of every event,
you could breathe
and simply be.

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