Sunday 3/04/2007 11:30:00 PM

She woke up. Her bed a coffin. Each nightmare an autopsy. She slept. Every night as dead as anyone had ever slept. Beside what some would call angels. Others demons. All the life that has parcelled us to our current location. A series of falls that when you look back you see yourself running. Not because you did, but because it wouldn't make any sense otherwise. To fall so many times and still be standing. Scouring each stray thought for a long lost face. Someone on a bus. Or the platform as you boarded a train that never brought you back.

The dull needle of experience still tumbling over the veins. Examining each swatch of skin for a path between the scars. To enter. To release. All those echoes others call demons and angels. Just thoughts beating their wings against her coffin. Her nightmares debating when she'll wake up.

Tiny scales still trying to weigh boulders.

1 comments:
Shannon - Belfast, Northern Ireland said...

Utterly brilliant,a lamentation that reaches the divides between genius & madness.



| Alcoholic Poet Home |
Copyright 2005-2016. All Rights Reserved.