Wednesday, November 19, 2008

I’m sitting, collecting dust
in the corner,
haven’t moved in a while,
just a stillness, felling frozen,
my limbs in a forced rigour mortise
while still feeling the pain of life,
bless what my name says to me,
calls out to recall
messes,
after 250 odd millimetres
the sun has poked its nose through the forest,
drying the expanded, sponged concrete,
soon to be covered by fresh breaths,
black blood drips, slowly, it burned through
two litres a week, those germans
can sure make a car that goes on all ones,
I felt lost, riding through the city and forgetting,
the streets, a maze in my mind, the cars, an easy escape,
a fatal mistake, I’d be picked off of the ground and washed
away by the rain, gray limelight and my own fifteen minutes
to define my front page spectacular,
listing memorial day memories of someone else
who is dead and gone,
but dancing in a far off place, no longer cold or
sweating with impartialities, climbing inside
the well worn centre of time, to many and
the hundred or so billion who’ve known it,
feelings worn out through time and age, grace and
crystal castles so easily turn to sand, only to be blown
away by a childslike fancy,
whimsying its surroundings into
whatever it sees fit.

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