She used to talk about the temperature of dreams.
I will never forget the smoke - both guilt and ease.
It was always pleasant, sun, and spring.
For hours I would stare out that window into the greens.
Now I see just the lonely, myself too.
I decide to climb through. just to talk, if only to me.
Looking back the experiences are all scattered across the floor.
They are tumbling off shelves and stacked up high.
The smudged glass makes the impossibility of being so clear.
reflecting a world of the moment,
waiting for creation, told what will be,
I could write this line a million times - always remembering what to see.
I sit up and take notice, another impossibility,
free.
No comments:
Post a Comment