she awoke to water.
incapably weary,
biting through numb while waiting for dry-
and gathered shiny callouses
dripped into palms, tiny tokens of weight
that fingers clutched and bartered
in spasms of hopeless,
bits of rough counted, each pulled alone
from a well of endless.
counted down. stepped closer. shifted untidy.
the night was dirt. it clung to the day of salt just gone-
she looked down, tried to read the future
in a hand full of sleep
and there, and then,
on a finished edge she smiled:
at how life could never be
this absurd,
realised in a blink
that she didn't want to go there. Not now.
Not ever.
so, she drifted into sleep,
with the water her blanket.
of after this, she recalls one dream:
of an oven and Sylvia Plath, where nothing
was broken, sad or tired- just an effort gone
wrong, to burn away some tears.
Adding your comment:
) And there was this perfect, beautiful, little, dead blue bird lying in the grass next to me. Everybody else was afraid of it and were so sad about it dying ... but I saw it as beautiful and perfect even in death ... like it was the normal span of things, you know. But then suddenly, everyone was gone, and everything in front of me started getting so dark (darker than night) ... so I turned around to escape the black and turn towards the light, and there was like a fringy black hem of a cape between me and the light, and I felt like it was a ghost and I had to go through it to get out of the darkness ... I woke up feeling so cold and tired (not scared but weary tired) ... but I could still remember how pretty and alive that little chubby bluebird looked even in death, and somehow I wasn't afraid of that damned black ghost that keeps jumping into my dreams
I told you it was weird 
Love, Lane
