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| Welcome ! | Home · FAQ · Topics · Web Links · Your Account · Submit Poetry · Top 30 · OldSite Link | 29-May 17:52:16 AEST | ||
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Array
(
[sid] => 109974
[catid] => 1
[aid] => mick
[title] => We grow tired watching.
[time] => 2005-11-18 11:06:55
[hometext] => It's random saids plucked from the eyes of my notebooks. always, abraham ^_^
[bodytext] => I have not escaped. The effortless fires of my past still burn and break me. She is nothing. She is the star consumed by its own light. It is a new day day dreaming on soft, soft beds; grass; pillows; stains. Breaths of rain satisfy me in so many ways. (Farewell my shattered night. Farewell my sinking star. Farewell my mourning angel, how long you've traveled far.) I am alone. I am afraid. I Am continuing to find new fear. A nicotine palace, dark and pristine, slight falls from grace. Falls inward; a porcelain carcass paints her face. A mirror is shadow, casts shade; a tumult of color wrings night, vibrancy and violence wounding the night. (It is only a matter of time. A matter of time. Matter of time. Of time. Time. Time is an infant dead in the womb. Time is a lovers last embrace.) The night is a wolf bloated on lost silences. Its maw gapes in a curled snarl, its eyes catch the hollow sound of the moon howling down. As twilight descends a spirit brought between us. We imagine existence. A light frightens stone. Stars strive and stalk the night above. Our dreams forget us. A rain comes swiftly, spreads to play the sunset. We grow tired watching. There is a man beside me. He sips coffee, smokes a cigarette, watches me with mild, cold eyes. His hands are old hands. They are stern, gentle hands subdued and furious, reaching to a peppered gray beard. A shoe, my sky. A boot, your laughter ringing proud and sad over the phone. Cigarettes burn through my dreams. Needles in the basket, the basement hides my face. (We walked forever beneath the charcoal spoon.) I am afraid... and Evita knows my crime... garnet rings and plastic boxes. An old, rusted cage hangs in her car. (Farewell my autumn love. Farewell my winters tear. Farewell my spring December, your song so crystal clear.) It is fitting that my close should be here. What is home to me? What is this fragility in this sleeping air? Why is it always so cold? [comments] => 5 [counter] => 289 [topic] => 73 [informant] => iodinelove [notes] => [ihome] => 0 [alanguage] => english [acomm] => 0 [haspoll] => 0 [pollID] => 0 [score] => 4 [ratings] => 1 [editpoem] => 1 [associated] => [topicname] => abstract )
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