Post by Whimsical||MUSE; on Mar 24, 2012 22:16:05 GMT -5
My darling Anemoi
Who is it that calls to me? --
the raw edge of my words is dulled by weariness,
bone-deep and tiring. I try to rise, but only fall.
And fall,
and fall.
Yet it is my name that is whispered on the wind -
name without words, without sound: feeling that
curls under my chest and begs me to rise.
Slips in my veins and runs rampant:
We are igniting fires where dust had once been --
finding life somewhere among this death
that has laid waste to everything I've ever known.
Realism or fantasy -
I put them both in a box and shake it up.
I put my heart in the box and throw it out to sea
wondering, wondering,
if the wind will carry it true,
and find itself a warm place to blossom.
January 24th
Who is it that calls to me? --
the raw edge of my words is dulled by weariness,
bone-deep and tiring. I try to rise, but only fall.
And fall,
and fall.
Yet it is my name that is whispered on the wind -
name without words, without sound: feeling that
curls under my chest and begs me to rise.
Slips in my veins and runs rampant:
We are igniting fires where dust had once been --
finding life somewhere among this death
that has laid waste to everything I've ever known.
Realism or fantasy -
I put them both in a box and shake it up.
I put my heart in the box and throw it out to sea
wondering, wondering,
if the wind will carry it true,
and find itself a warm place to blossom.
January 24th