The stones inside were small,
jagged
cut discord into words,
gestures and the lust that followed;
a shadow, a wolf, a breeze
sickly sweet, a touch too warm
for sleep.
The stones inside grew
smoothed
sought peace in words
art and an acceptance
that found laps, rested, purred, a breeze
tangy; scent of lemon myrtle
for dreams.
The stones rest upon eyelids,
draw the curtains
place the feet on a stool,
words a drool; the fool
now understands life’s a breeze
that whispers truth
behind loud footsteps.
No comments:
Post a Comment