Monday, October 20, 2014



I dream

Of flights that memories can buy


My white wings, sailing through the blue,

And resting

On burning gold clouds of desire;

But it’s a dream,

Just too thin, to make flights,


And so I drop

With my transparent wings ablaze,

Like birds

That cannot flap their wings twice,

Head down

Rolling through the cure of life,


A cure

Not made of soft memories,

And not

Of hard atrocities,

But a cure nevertheless,

A wound,

Every bit soft,

And yet so sharp,


So as I sit,

In bitter mud, crying,

Nursing wound, that would one day,

Relieve me off the pain,

A butterfly drenched in color,

Sits on my eyelashes. Quiet.

She drinks the salt

And turns sepia,



A part to kill,

A part for cure.

1 comment:

Aaron Baker said...

When feelings just tell us to do things when you can amble, you should refrain from making any judgment at once, with some ideas to make your own God given certain until the time and the mood in the rest of the blood is completely settle down.
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