In the dark city of reflection walls are made
from skulls and other random bones,
create spaces of separateness in the limestone
avenues to wander by the light of carbide
whisper romantic songs into the starless ceiling
hold hands with ghosts who roam the streets
as they try to remember the address upstairs.
It is there voices meet, pretend to be echoes
recount old stories of sunlight and birdsong
with hearts that long to return, seeds that need
warmth for life to burst upon them again, hands
ready to push through rock and soil, two arms
to spread into the joyous stance of ballerinas.
No comments:
Post a Comment