The moments trickle from ignorance; we are the wonder-smell of old books.
Spiked trifles of potential vine down my back,
planting me firmly in the now.
In the friction and distance between,
our minds dance behind veiled feathers.
We are filthy spectators with money
to spend on a good show. The theatre of maybe
built brick-wise by both of us eventually
will dominate headlines. Today,
the shows stay small despite the dedicated casts.
The moments dart under conversations
like frightened cats from the threat of thunder.
I don't care where these glances deliver us
as long as you won't ask me to drive.
But know we are a hushed river
whose water whispers motion into the mud
beneath it. I'll fight your moonlight-slit eyes
with my wooden dagger for a bit longer. Someday I'll surrender.
Vines wilt.
Rivers run.
Shows end.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment