Tuesday 10/30/2007 12:36:00 AM

Remembering the moment. Pale paint drying on thin brushes. The cartoon in your fall. Looking down at the nothing beneath your feet. Not falling until you see it. Me. Passing this anvil onto you. The words above your head so clear.

She draws in pen. She draws in ink. Pencil is for the young. Pencil is for those that still think that they can erase. Or that they would want to. She draws in circles. The beginning is the end. Like she remembers her nightmares. Like she knows her life is.

Fretting her skin. Like used sleeping pills. Waking up in strange beds. Counting the men like raindrops. The heavens sweating down on her as she hurries to keep up with them.

No more dead things. Just the soil between her toes as she catches the last petal of the last flower. No more gardens. Just the dead coming back again. Until all gods are liars.

2 comments:
Veronica said...

Wow.
"Just the soil between her toes as she catches the last petal of the last flower. No more gardens."
Massive imagery. I love this.

ap said...

Imagery of lost little girls is my specialty as I've been one for so long.

it's always a compliment to find out you still come back to read some more.



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