with my hands clenched tightly to the window-sill, with my eyes wide open staring at the sun,
i sit.
my view is broken by 2 white pieces of wood sitting perfectly perpendicular against my dusty window of glass. i open my mouth, only to find that the window has become fogged. with the tip of my finger, i wipe away the moisture. it's on my finger now. swiftly, it starts to disappear. mouth. window. finger. mouth. window. finger.
i scream, unheard. i blink, unseen. outwards, i reach my hand, painfully untouched, i contract it back. i touch my cheek to know i exist. even inside a world of windows, i can't truly see. everything has a rainbow glazed over it's colors. when it rains, it leaks. when it snows it blocks. a greenhouse with no plants. a dome i call home. big white blankets draped over all the chairs. comfort never looked so dry, so lonely, so unused. i see them walk, they talk the drive. they don't see me, here in a house made of glass.
one way mirrors never did any harm. some one on the other side? please don't ring the alarm.
Mar 17, 2009
Mar 15, 2009
love, and some verses.
wake up, it's no use pretending. the snow from the igloo has melted. the shoulder you'd lean on has grown strangely cold. your fur-hood coat has to face the sun. your eyes see the building, now it stands up straight. now we all, us three, will ride.
evicted as you are, you see a boy with a coin, a pagan angel and a borrowed car. such a weary memory. the innocent bones inside your fingers, reach out to grab the keys unfamiliar, the shiny silver circle, and the hands that hold them so carelessly. our endless numbered days are fleeting. were down to 16, maybe less.
promise what you will, but i know where my end will be. in the prison on route 41, naked as we came. i'll be there surrounded with iron and wine, cinders and smoke, waiting to see them fly away on your wings. i'll kiss them goodbye, i anticipate no reply. i know the end will be broken enough, but to expect some hope, that may be too much.
me my self and i, we'll walk upward over the mountain. waiting for the rooster's moan and the lion's mane to wake me in the morning. too soon we've faded from the winter. the sun rose in the east and stayed there too long. maybe, if were lucky, he'll sneak away. he'll hide behind a cloud or two, go visit the moon and the stars in the west. as i said to myself and me, if i leave before you, darling, don't waste me in the ground.
evicted as you are, you see a boy with a coin, a pagan angel and a borrowed car. such a weary memory. the innocent bones inside your fingers, reach out to grab the keys unfamiliar, the shiny silver circle, and the hands that hold them so carelessly. our endless numbered days are fleeting. were down to 16, maybe less.
promise what you will, but i know where my end will be. in the prison on route 41, naked as we came. i'll be there surrounded with iron and wine, cinders and smoke, waiting to see them fly away on your wings. i'll kiss them goodbye, i anticipate no reply. i know the end will be broken enough, but to expect some hope, that may be too much.
me my self and i, we'll walk upward over the mountain. waiting for the rooster's moan and the lion's mane to wake me in the morning. too soon we've faded from the winter. the sun rose in the east and stayed there too long. maybe, if were lucky, he'll sneak away. he'll hide behind a cloud or two, go visit the moon and the stars in the west. as i said to myself and me, if i leave before you, darling, don't waste me in the ground.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)