am helpless without the written word
reading, writing
watching it unfold on the screen
the screen
where my heart unfolds to rapturous strains
of
there is no little conceit wrought in words of
our own choosing
musing
the delicacy of our past perfection
those flawless memories
like cats sneaking on our bed
the rest is mere folly
so long as we subscribe to no false notions
nor pander to our own lies
about ourself
done
yesterday is here
tomorrow has been pushed back
so cry
if
you want
No comments:
Post a Comment