Ah. Beautiful children throwing their toys across the street as the smoke blows in their faces. The way they blissfully laugh, the way they carry their presence, these children make me smile without notice.
The strings across these brick walls. The paint is chipping from my door. I'm not afraid of thunder. I'm not afraid of lightening. I'm afraid of admitting your demons. Isn't that correct? The call has been patient. The outlook, measured, counted and wasted.
I hear you calling my name. I hear them raising to tame. I hear them screaming. All is silent.
I was soaked in soul and lace covered eyelashes. I'll kiss the moon and untie my ropes.
The back of my hands, torn and red. I felt them clawing at my back! When I was awoken, I saw their scratches on my arms! Faded personalities, and broken wings left for take off.
Felt once was, a wise man once almost said, that there was a meaning in my footsteps, and a shimmer in my walk.
I'm almost certain that there isn't a reason nor rhyme.
I'm so happy to be swimming in my own clichés. That this is how it's supposed to be? For it's "always" been?
Does your proof hide from you? I'd believe it.
0 comments:
Post a Comment