walls of rooms filled w/ dust,
on floors, on hands and knees and blinded
sing w/ your heart
grow scars
this is the place, you see, this house
where the dying man lives, and
there is nothing any of us can do
no blood on the carpet, but a sense
that it could happen at any time
a window
a back yard filled w/ fireflies and twilight
stand there, barefoot, wide-eyed, emotions
carved from dark, sticky wood
speak names softly
breathe in the warmth of
overwhelming joy
stand as still as you can
until all laughter has stopped
1 comment:
i had to chuckle at your use of w/ i have been using that lately of no consequence to reading your works, that is cool..
of course the poem rocks too.
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