He’ll smell of wet leaves when we blend.
Fine trace of lace and lily stem.
Of clumps of clay and pressed Wild Pink;
Droplets of cloud-colored ink.
He’ll recreate the meaning of
A taste of death;
The scent of love.
Like silver slivers of a dream,
He’ll stir in me a shade unseen.
He’ll feel like branches, mica stone.
Like cold, cobwebbed canary bones,
And windswept feathers sometime lost,
Rotting ‘neath moth-eaten moss.
The true fixation of my soul —
To haunt a ghost
Without control.
He’ll smell of a wildflower field.
I’ll breath him in; I will be healed.
Amy Strom
"I speak of love that comes to mind: The moon is faithful, although blind; She moves in thought she cannot speak. Perfect care has made her bleak. I never dreamed the sea so deep, The earth so dark; so long my sleep, I have become another child. I wake to see the world go wild."
♥ 6
→ 08 Dec 12 at 9 pm
→ 08 Dec 12 at 9 pm
We run on sushi and metaphors and caffeine—
Brooding pulls of cigarette smoke and sunset setting
Sepia dreamers dreaming in notebook doodles
Instead of taking the notes we needI hear the words; I hear them
We all hear you, and would hear you better
If you’d only stop talking so much.
Hush.…
Below, a floor of shifting, crumbling plates,
Held together by hope —
The memory of something that never was
Wails.
Seeking escape,
Awaiting freedom.
Once planted there to grow,
It rots instead; the soil over-wet with sorrow.—
Above, a sky of shifting, drifting clouds,
Masking what’s beyond.
The animals that float there drift in peace;
Laughing at gravity,
Awaiting the ache that will bring them back to Earth;
Seeking shelter.
Relief from pounding wings;
From tiny heartbeats.
- Amy Strom
