Don't speak
and don't let the whispers fall
(they hit the floor too fast
and I can't catch their broken sounds...)
you're fading out again
and drowning
down
without a syllable intact
for me to tie to.

Take the undone paper words
and fly with them.
I might just be the iron bars that hold you in
so light a match
and watch me curl my toes around the cinders.

When the stars fall softly down
I will escape horizon.
Rays of a neon sun will throw me skyward
and I'll head towards the dusk
like souls escaping from a bottle.
(Or, that weathered glass will rise out of the sea
a perfect marble to behold
only to find itself a meter under sand.)

04/10/2004

Author's Note: When you're in a mood. An odd mood. Where everything right is wrong and you know that in the morning it will all be gone and most likely everything that bothered you the day before will be nothing when the sun comes up. So then the sun comes up, and what bugged you before doesn't, but you're buried in the memory of how it felt to be under that spell.

Posted on 04/10/2004
Copyright © 2024 Trisha De Gracia