Your hands grew into glass,
mine grew into your fibers;
steel-plated,
pasteurized heat
and the added flavors
of midnight's orchard,
leaked into the porcelain tile.
We were clouds,
in liquid form.
Our sandy shells snapped off,
melted into the floor;
but reddened paper still cradled
a strong, crystalline orbit.
Limbs were torn--
all our weight leaked out;
we dripped into the rug,
like flushed raindrops
off the shoes of strangers.
Slipping ourselves
back into crevices of home,
we lost our will to run.
It's all just paper and sand,
but our label made us.
Author notes
Lipton PureLeaf bottles --- they never, ever break. No matter how hard they fall to the floor.
A contest entry
- Inanimate Objects... by surface--tension.
600 points, ended May 21, 2008, 28 entries
• next poem in this contest, remove from contest
Comments
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fantatic. Superb writing about something that the markets as well as the consumer personify in ways that nearly intimidates...
I want some now..hehehehe.
Thank you~~~!
-
damn..
you are fuckin good.
in all honesty the strongest part of this one is the first stanza. the rest dribbled off a bit; maybe a stronger ending? but then again putting myself in your place i could not have done any better so props to you chick
♥
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