Static rising from the floor
while shuffling feet clamor
Cross the street
all this traffic communes with
noise and you're all the way over
there.
This buggy filled
with boxes and wrapping
paper. Each a muffled voice
of things to do and say.
Odd, these notebooks
all the words within.
Calligraphy
before ink on paper.
This painting, oils bright and
gray, painted
when time marched. Though
it's no beauty, I look at it
each day.
Mute it can not abide me. It
melts in classical tune. Now here
nightlife abates
eye-worn screen where contrast
obeys and strolls the page.
Sound too clever
to roam right roads
will shatter
what folds beneath the sheet
Cerebral and hazy, she
stands with open hand. Pages
fill with midday grins and
blood beat heavy lens.
Whelmed by all distraction,
a different snore beside. This data
far more contracted and meaning
far more contrived.
Slide out this hour again
for glasses and drinks while
what once hungered fantastic
now lay starved.
Reading healthy past
while furies tug at the side
if harpies could be driven
then absolute would define.
Yet here the truth is forgiven
for harboring always those lies. |
Submission Name: insomnia
