not quite of this world's culture,
many moments lived locked in the wardrobe of other’s reality
she holds herself.
many moments lived locked in the wardrobe of other’s reality
she holds herself.
even in her imagination
she's losing the warmth of light.
but they'll bring it soon ...
she hopes ...
and they come. for moments.
they feed off her smile, innocence, laughter
depositing feather tokens for admittance:
all she asks, not requires.
high cheekbones and dandelion laughter,
stories that entrance with captivating enthusiasm
she is their youth.
carefree days before they
were locked into -
laws, habits, commitments,
futures, addictions-
carefree days before they
were locked into -
laws, habits, commitments,
futures, addictions-
life.
they've forgotten, then too they cried,
as if sorrow were some new technology.
then they cried ... as does she
waking wet
only
she lacks anyone to comfort her.
they've forgotten, then too they cried,
as if sorrow were some new technology.
then they cried ... as does she
waking wet
only
she lacks anyone to comfort her.
Beautiful ones are often lonely.
she weaves a tale or two
and as she weaves,
and as she weaves,
she watches them
cloaked tightly in well-thought-out plans,
each breath heavier with anticipation for
the next than with gratitude for the last.
each moment a stepping stone
towards the one that follow,
cloaked tightly in well-thought-out plans,
each breath heavier with anticipation for
the next than with gratitude for the last.
each moment a stepping stone
towards the one that follow,
lacking significance of its own.
she wonders: do I, can I fit in their world?
But by the time she’s gained courage enough to ask
she wonders: do I, can I fit in their world?
But by the time she’s gained courage enough to ask
they already gone,
plans again in hand,
preparing for their long journey back to real society.
left again in darkness
her memory clenches the image reflected in their eyes -
cloudy and distorted, they are her only mirror.
plans again in hand,
preparing for their long journey back to real society.
left again in darkness
her memory clenches the image reflected in their eyes -
cloudy and distorted, they are her only mirror.
she is reconciled:
only beautiful ones are part of their world.
and beauty is not her name.
if she could dance naked under palm trees
and see her image in the river
she would know ... [1]
she would know ... [1]
She would know.
be bum.
be - be - be,
beeee buummm
be - be - be,
beeee buummm
from a memory she can no longer place
the blues of broken jazz
lull her to sleep.
the blues of broken jazz
lull her to sleep.
~2000
No comments:
Post a Comment