Post by Whimsical||MUSE; on Oct 13, 2011 8:28:03 GMT -5
Spinning Bottles
There is a limit here:
a line drawn between you and me and them;
a child drew it with her fingers
lines cast in sand.
Will the wind blow it away, or shall I
break our mothers' backs? My foot
can smear it all away, but we are still caged
within the circles that spin 'round our shoes.
I am stuck, but before I ran:
Am I stuck in the running?
In the lying?
In the hating?
How can I hate you when you fight so hard?
When everything you know is to cling so tight --
Yet I can feel your fingers slipping:
I've always been hard to hold.
I cannot blame you,
and never would -- in your eyes there is eternity,
and in mine, a child runs. My thoughts are
superfluous, at best -
Every step is a hard one,
grass and roots rising up in revolt
tangling around my neck:
every breath, I fight for, just to live,
let alone to love, and love well.
Are you as tenacious as basil? Hah, hah!
Shadows are curling round my fingers,
or is that blood? -
staining the air, a vile stench as I die a little bit,
and die off again, and again, and again.
Will morning ever come?
October 12, 2011
There is a limit here:
a line drawn between you and me and them;
a child drew it with her fingers
lines cast in sand.
Will the wind blow it away, or shall I
break our mothers' backs? My foot
can smear it all away, but we are still caged
within the circles that spin 'round our shoes.
I am stuck, but before I ran:
Am I stuck in the running?
In the lying?
In the hating?
How can I hate you when you fight so hard?
When everything you know is to cling so tight --
Yet I can feel your fingers slipping:
I've always been hard to hold.
I cannot blame you,
and never would -- in your eyes there is eternity,
and in mine, a child runs. My thoughts are
superfluous, at best -
Every step is a hard one,
grass and roots rising up in revolt
tangling around my neck:
every breath, I fight for, just to live,
let alone to love, and love well.
Are you as tenacious as basil? Hah, hah!
Shadows are curling round my fingers,
or is that blood? -
staining the air, a vile stench as I die a little bit,
and die off again, and again, and again.
Will morning ever come?
October 12, 2011