|
change is inevitable; the hands will still stutter past the numbers on this plastic clock. brittle bones will decalcify and muscles will atrophy ~ sad eyes will cry and brighten and lose their luster. fingers will sweep away tears and dial numbers to chase away demons ~ finally settling down, crossing a broken heart. words will metamorph themselves and don the disguise of wisdom ~ tones falling and rising with emotional tides. legs will walk miles and stir the sands of time until the path has been paved ~ then they will pause, and wait. a heart will beat ~ staccato ~ until the blood grows tired of its relentless path through weakened spider-veins. this body will slowly crumble to dust and ashes and vague memories ~ of a tired and blasë-stricken girl. these words will remain on stark white paper ~ holding some sort of contrived meaning. ...until my language- my voice- loses its resonence ::and poetry dies:: |
|
|






