underground.
and museums in Paris.
Whitewashed buildings, and a grey sky.
Blankets strewn, dark blue, woven at your feet.
And your arms to the clouds, pulling moisture from your hands.
It propelled, and expanded; a precipitation of pure white.
Falling across your face.
And therefore spun unraveled crumpled papers, into motion:
years achieved and yet I entered, held, and transformed.
I believe you increased, since I did. Generally, there are red skies.
Bones crumbling, and I am unaware of the implications of these dream sequences.
How they glimpse into rushing time.
I whispered that armies of chaos will stumble into their assigned places, underground.
All will then realize: silence is the most effective lullaby.
No comments:
Post a Comment