Thursday, August 9, 2012

Hand to Mouth.

There is a sadness in me that seems out of place.
That black tree that grew across the yard as I cut my teeth
always scratched at my window in order to get me to come over.
And it said I had a glowing pain.
It said I was unable to be sure.
It said there was a possibility of ruin in my heart.
It was a gathering gleam of empty and it tries to take me
down the lonely path.
And it all grew up in me as an instigation.
A sorrow that looses its seductive smile into me like a string of bullets.
The woods wrap themselves around her and she's gone further into the calm.
The humid blanket of twilight further deepens and I hear her ruffle
feathers and dirt and she make herself comfortable.
Such a fool, to listen to her as I stumble after.
And hearing a shatter I trip and I'm just opening my eyes
inside my bed with an electrical cord in my hand.
It was a thick night but only because I had unplugged the box fan.
And my hands like maps of a place I hadn't been
and my mouth gone because it didn't follow
and my eyes blinking without recognition.
She's gone for the moment.
There are so many trees though.

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