The thing is they take off
on their own, shadowy something-s
difficult to tell apart. Melancholy sailing
around the lagoon - it's really the lake
I see every day - surprises,
whispers unwhispered, so much unsaid.
Self is what I have to offer the sun:
a feather, a semi-colon
transformed into a comma
before disappearing. If I speak
my voice echoes through a narrow
tunnel that leads to starry horizons.
Where are my words?
A pathway lined by shrubs and wild plants.
Some afternoons are more abstract than others.
They flow away and back
into a grasp of time stopping.
Please tell me what you think
Comments
-
We so often pine for a better here and now, often missing, not only unappreciative of, but losing the here and now in search of its mystical brother...
The dog and the bone and the river.....
-
melancholy is like sailing
back and forth between what ifs
imagining a small change there
a different smile here
remembering the same red apple
on the same white china plate
unbitten
Adding your comment:
