"heavy handed"
hands give & give back;
calloused fingertips twirl
obstinate purity as it falls
in & out of place.
what i have is a dream of you.
a clock tick rouses an empty
feeling to which i can't relate.
when i wake the room is bare.
white gloom in our thirties
seems elegant now. does it
strike you as profound to
run in our hour of need?
employ a fortuneteller; attempt
to predict time- but never wind
back the clock.
i'll climb toward stars &
make a home in your hair.
then again, maybe i won't
but i might.
i say that because there is despair in
wedding bells-- a stream of pure discord
that would run through my head & roll
from my mouth like a long-distance train.
there is a price for paradise.
if you do not believe me, i
will show you the scars.
No comments:
Post a Comment