Remind me,
Of times when we would dance.
From moonrise, till light crept in,
from fresh smoke, to stale bread.
“What is life? A madness. What is life? An illusion, a shadow, a story and the greatest good is little enough for all life is a dream…”
– Life is a Dream; Calderon de la Barca,
“Tell me what is it you plan to do with your one wild and precious life.”
The weight of memories are indescribable at best.
I bite my fingers as I think. My pupils fall black in the reflection of the mirror. The computer glows back and makes me tinge a blue. I think. I think.
———————————
Forest Folk; Type One
Sometimes I could swear that the roots of the worst are in the breath of the first.
The ones who still thirst live lives murkier than most.
The ones who still yearn feel the wind on their cheeks,
whirlpool of leaves, down by their feet,
smoke bubbles at their lips.
They’re in trouble.
They are
misty mumbling creatures.
Fumbling through latches, tumbling in grasses,
so long, it tickles their knees.
They are
slippery wily peoples.
Lingering on at night, darkening doorways,
so quiet, that echoes ring.
Not even
if they look softer than skin,
Seem tinier than
whimsical notions,
are lighter than being.
The roots of their hearts and their branches of thought
cling harder than I would to your hand in the dark.
Deceiving vice grip.
They are not just thirsty, hungering, yearning creatures.
They are clawing at awnings of rooftops above.
Desperately seeking something more than just love.
Actively taking whats more than their breath.
Silently shaking the leaves off the rest.
Sometimes I do swear they can be better than this,
seemingly bliss-
ful. Seeming amiss.
Seeming to be able
of more than a kiss
and run.
———————————
sudokita
