| | "By the time I am done, I shall have spoken of the wind on her broken blue face, and the tales that fall on the dry pavements. I shall have told you where the dark grey city keeps its words of longing and despair, and having said it, the night shall silently come with its crickets and graveyards to guide you to iridescent sleep.
It was in an alley that her steps were born to the asphalt and the dust of routine, and vagabond days. The layers in the sky spoke of sighs and reminders, and when she was full, they'd come with their open desire at touching her, not more than once, that is, of course, the clouds never fall in numbers.
In an evening, her skirt that gently brushed the dry floor stitched its inner voices of playing with the flowers, in a dizzy game of dazzling and deciding, and declining the stray feathers, countless on the old streets, sleeping lowly, and silent, as if with no words, no whispers for her to beckon them with.
One day the morning would hold her to its breast of dead distance, and the next, the years would crawl upon her days, and when the ways to the playgrounds knew their names, she'd stand, alone and easily frightened.
And yet, the months came and went, like her muses with the laughter of the lilies and their ribbons of blue satin words, and by swearing on their hearts of simple old play, she'd weave the seconds that would easily see her sleeping.
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"In the shadows, there have been whispers and cold voices of recalling, and in the city, the traces of their slithering smirks of damnation cut the windowsills and the balconies, and the tired men within them, the armchairs that rock with their creaking sounds of defiance.
She shall see to them over coffee-cups and springing lamps and ballrooms decked in mirrors, bright and festive, in their damp sickened mirth.
The earth grows a little older when she is out with the men, waving her hands at their silly whimpers and anecdotes, and passing by, shaking her head, easily recounting the steps back into their hollow grey talks of the scents and the start of strong living, from birth to cold breathing every week, and when they are sleeping, sly smiles would know them better."
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As night falls though, her lips touch the ceiling with her inner heart of hearts crying, seizing, the deathly pests of the pavements on her tambourine soul, the holes in the rain, the grass with no when-and-where gliding even there, where the pathways are silent, only broken by questions and replies on the strength of the roads in front of us, (and the commotion always startles with its precise knowledge of answers, the ancient verses of easy lining and their hidden sly wishes). But through all of their reasoning with wooden spoons and wheezing yellow men with cigarettes, her wet voice of the earth, the gentle young flowers looking with no hurt at her margarine face, come to her in grasps at her sleepy blue breath, and she cannot look back at them, as she is running in shame and denial, even though, they look at her disappearing in wonder. And then she is nimble with her tears that stroke her cheeks while she breaks the easy grumbles in her tired words and days.
A dry flower in her diary has been speaking of the breeze still, the nameless will of her graceful eyes in the songly young spring, and the tiny restless brook that reads tales to her when, she is numb and almost definitely decided on.
A dry flower in her diary is what I shall name her tonight, and having gently let my fingers brush the tears off her face, I shall sing in pink lullabies till she opens her eyes, and I close my own to find her in me."
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| | Posted 9/20/2008 12:36 PM - 36 Views - 2 eProps - 1 Comment
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