Between myself and the pine trees on the hill
Thoughts passed, like presents. Unwrapping them, I found words that I, not trees, knew and could afford: lonely, sigh, night.THe pines had given me my seven-year self, but kept their own meaning in the sky.
Now, in exchange of dreams this remote world I still unwrap, identify the presents;and always tired recognition gives way to hope that soon I may find a new, a birthday shape, a seperate essence yielded without threat or deceit, a truthful vocabulary of what is and not.
Vowels turn like wheels:the chariot is empty. Tall burning consonants light the deserted street. unwrapping the world, unwrapping the world where pine trees still say lonely, sigh, night, and refuse, refuse, and their needles of deceit dop in my eyes, i began to write.
2007-05-11
19:37:00
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4 answers
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asked by
Trev M
1
in
Poetry