the weeping lyre of your
heady desire, taking the
space where raw and pure
thoughts once were,
the roof angered by the
rain as you interpret
your own dreams, as you
guard your own notions
as you sleep, white becomes
this pale, almost unrecognizable
arid wall where your fireworks
hang waiting to be ignited,
giving birth to unimagined
colors and noise and light.
No comments:
Post a Comment