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CAVEAT
There is a place called |
August 15, 2005
The monochromatic sound of rotors drifted across spray of lilies, drowning scent and texture with ribbons of twilight. Tiny knots of violet tied themselves in between fingers laced against each other in repetitive prayers for wind and salt to scatter and settle between foamy mouths and inside fissures of stones, blending with memories slowly being forgotten. Somewhere along the long-lost vision of a blind man strumming a guitar is a crisp, white handkerchief wet with a woman's tears as she tied yellow ribbons around a coffin made of white ash. A procession that crawled beneath drizzles. The street yawned for sleep blinking splashes of neon dotted the conscious tiredness of half-closed lids eager to close for the night reluctant to wake up on a bed cradling nothing warm but a body that has long gone cold-- for a wide-eyed smile, for delicious scrapes that remind of climbing trees in a hot summer knowing that the leaves at the topmost are lapping coolness all by themselves. Chalk-marks on an empty schoolyard echo lost nursery rhymes about ashes and falling and things that cannot be mended anymore. A low wail seared across the ebbing crowd like a red-hot poker branding cold hard skin one that will soon be dust, a second thought when brushing away the dirt from eyes that can only see in shades of gray. blue rogue |
