(no subject)
A wind is shifting, trees, skies, storms, a wind is shifting -
in the small room at White Street house;
one girl,
with a camera of thought.
i shall collect the air, validate it, measure it.
i think i exist to validate myself..
and the air, which fumbles through bushes, never coming close,
is found to be a song of which i make music to.
i write letters on torn paper and mail them to strangers,
that strange girl, that beautiful girl unseen.
the silent cardboard room. the dusty, breathless, horrid hot air,
the sun makes spiderwebs across the floor.
with downcast eyes and a silver earing, a pendant from a symbolic ear..
the walls are murky, out of touch, distant, but the colour within the eyes are fiery.
was it only by the silence in a voice? was it also the glint to the words? was it buried in the cold motion-sensed movement in the way those words appeared, the way away messages come, the way my own words are unanswered. what is it that persuades this person to ignore the appeal in my voice and hesitate to lay down the shortest of answers. his own found disappointment from months ago at the cliffs where i threw myself while i abandoned the hands of those close, ran and rolled and tossed through the air - that air could have been my end.
the land and earth are not mine.
i am infite like the stories read in the stars.
i listen, listen to the throbs.
all of time is in the perpetual ebb of life below
below, the world melts before my gaze..
a gaze of
stars..
a thousand eyes in a tattered enflamed sky.
in the small room at White Street house;
one girl,
with a camera of thought.
i shall collect the air, validate it, measure it.
i think i exist to validate myself..
and the air, which fumbles through bushes, never coming close,
is found to be a song of which i make music to.
i write letters on torn paper and mail them to strangers,
that strange girl, that beautiful girl unseen.
the silent cardboard room. the dusty, breathless, horrid hot air,
the sun makes spiderwebs across the floor.
with downcast eyes and a silver earing, a pendant from a symbolic ear..
the walls are murky, out of touch, distant, but the colour within the eyes are fiery.
was it only by the silence in a voice? was it also the glint to the words? was it buried in the cold motion-sensed movement in the way those words appeared, the way away messages come, the way my own words are unanswered. what is it that persuades this person to ignore the appeal in my voice and hesitate to lay down the shortest of answers. his own found disappointment from months ago at the cliffs where i threw myself while i abandoned the hands of those close, ran and rolled and tossed through the air - that air could have been my end.
the land and earth are not mine.
i am infite like the stories read in the stars.
i listen, listen to the throbs.
all of time is in the perpetual ebb of life below
below, the world melts before my gaze..
a gaze of
stars..
a thousand eyes in a tattered enflamed sky.