Sunday, October 23, 2005

Weaves

and for the few steps,
pleasure mixes with pain
and the world breathes for days yet
a happiness in death, lighter than a mountain top
for the eyes that linger
and the tears that never fall,
stained cheeks and lost contacts
the days go on and on and on and
in the pearly white mornings
the sun rises with hands in the air,
the clouds fooled, dragging themselves out of bed,
spreading out as blankets
the raining, and the growing, and the blue hues
leave the earth feeling new
but for some oddity,
the moon leaves a whisper and a hush
and plants the soil with remnants of what was,
what could be and maybes, what ifs,
that should never be,
and so close to being,
then vanishing.

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