Images.
Images. The day is gone, dead to the world. The mountains are standing in their shadows, patient soldiers of the night. The clocks done counting, all the seconds of these past hours; they are spent like cigarette ash taken by a gust of the bitter November wind.
These images. Taken from my life and held at a stand still while my heart beats above them, the music never stopping but the faces growing cold. These snapshots, these poloroids sitting on the worn kitchen table, they're still speaking inside my head, still standing barefoot on the muddy earth of yesterday. The voices are the same, but all the words have changed. My mind spins, whirring and whispering to the ink, to cover me on the snow White Pages I lay down upon, leaving my bones to soak into the paper, leaving my mind to fly on the wings of the night. To be completely effortless; to be free.
I am a soft winged creature of the evening, spinning the tales of the rising moon, the walls of civilization fade and trees reach long elegant fingers, into the sky. They are posing the questions of the stars, of the inexplicable why. I close my eyes, a travler in search of rest. Feathers fold around my freckled skin. Somewhere I can smell the incandescent scent of rain. Just one thing I ask, let it soak through my skin, let it lay me softly down. Let it puddle in my valleys and my breath be of the darkened ground.
I am a weary travler. I am but a song. Awaiting the cries of morning and I'll be up, and I'll be gone.
These images. Taken from my life and held at a stand still while my heart beats above them, the music never stopping but the faces growing cold. These snapshots, these poloroids sitting on the worn kitchen table, they're still speaking inside my head, still standing barefoot on the muddy earth of yesterday. The voices are the same, but all the words have changed. My mind spins, whirring and whispering to the ink, to cover me on the snow White Pages I lay down upon, leaving my bones to soak into the paper, leaving my mind to fly on the wings of the night. To be completely effortless; to be free.
I am a soft winged creature of the evening, spinning the tales of the rising moon, the walls of civilization fade and trees reach long elegant fingers, into the sky. They are posing the questions of the stars, of the inexplicable why. I close my eyes, a travler in search of rest. Feathers fold around my freckled skin. Somewhere I can smell the incandescent scent of rain. Just one thing I ask, let it soak through my skin, let it lay me softly down. Let it puddle in my valleys and my breath be of the darkened ground.
I am a weary travler. I am but a song. Awaiting the cries of morning and I'll be up, and I'll be gone.
