All along the wispy mountain
Breathing, awkward peasants
Laying down the boards
Marking our defenses
The walls are made of stone
International intestines
A head and heart of white
And pillars praying on
Where now are the rafters?
The trees have but to come
Crashing - crashing down
To break their hold on us
May sun rise wet with lightness
And scent caress the morn'
The rain will pour for hours
But dryness bursts the doors
We have but our whispers
And tales to entertain
But what if stories, ever boring
Could walk, and talk, and play?
What's left among the legacy
It's lasting past the rocks
The feet that fill the weaves and will
Of double layered socks
Saturday, June 21, 2008
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1 comment:
I don't know about this one. I never really got into the groove of it until the very end. I'm not sure what it was but I didn't fall in love with it as I normally do with whatever you write. The flow wasn't there. Or maybe it was just because I think the word "intestines" is one of the most disgusting words ever. Ha. Honestly - that is probably it. I probably just can't get over the use of that word.
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