(no subject)
Once I had a dream
he woke me from my sleep
taught me to believe
now I’ve lost him in a nightmare
but I’m going to find him somewhere
even if it takes me under
even if it takes me down
under underground
here above the ground
ferris wheels go round
and the dance of clowns
a carnival- this town
only a playground
stay young, stay up above
before it takes you down
underground
The girl is floating above. Folding out from her thin, white back are wings. They are dusted with pollen. The girl floats on these wings, always just out of reach. She remembers - in her bones and blood, for she has never seen them- she remembers when there were others, smaller, all wings, like flowers lifted from their stems. Their eyes did not protect them. She remembers, in a dream, flowers growing from the earth. Beneath her, the boy drifts in a river. He is a river. His hair is shiny black ripples, his eyes bright, wet reflections. His limbs flow. He is the song, like the river he sings. And always, above him, the wings hover. As the sunlight shines through, they are like stained glass, casting their rainbows on the river. The river that travels through the desert, towards a place where horses will join it, where swans will join it and lilies grow on its banks, where there will be green again as there once was. The river-boy will join a body of water, his song becoming part of a chorus. The winged girl will dance above him. He will rise from the water and walk on his legs. She will alight beside him. Her vast wings will leave her, becoming other, smaller pairs of wings. There will be green again.
he woke me from my sleep
taught me to believe
now I’ve lost him in a nightmare
but I’m going to find him somewhere
even if it takes me under
even if it takes me down
under underground
here above the ground
ferris wheels go round
and the dance of clowns
a carnival- this town
only a playground
stay young, stay up above
before it takes you down
underground
The girl is floating above. Folding out from her thin, white back are wings. They are dusted with pollen. The girl floats on these wings, always just out of reach. She remembers - in her bones and blood, for she has never seen them- she remembers when there were others, smaller, all wings, like flowers lifted from their stems. Their eyes did not protect them. She remembers, in a dream, flowers growing from the earth. Beneath her, the boy drifts in a river. He is a river. His hair is shiny black ripples, his eyes bright, wet reflections. His limbs flow. He is the song, like the river he sings. And always, above him, the wings hover. As the sunlight shines through, they are like stained glass, casting their rainbows on the river. The river that travels through the desert, towards a place where horses will join it, where swans will join it and lilies grow on its banks, where there will be green again as there once was. The river-boy will join a body of water, his song becoming part of a chorus. The winged girl will dance above him. He will rise from the water and walk on his legs. She will alight beside him. Her vast wings will leave her, becoming other, smaller pairs of wings. There will be green again.