The crowd had carried you further by then,
Held betweena shoulder, and an elbow,
Further lost,
in the babel,
You cried, looking for a flower
A face, a farce.
A dream.
In that time,
The abbatoir quietened,
in your honour,
after a blind,
soft pause,
it said,
Here are your flowers,
your dreams
replete with temerity,
dry them in the sun,
let them take their time,
take them, their leaves,
their lives, their juice
and blood,
and choke on your smoke.
You left,
without noticing,
without a word to me.
3 comments:
Isn't it just the frail heart that we all possess? Cries, cribs and throws tantrums over the object of desire that it set its eye upon, never to pay heed to what the old wind says, or the pole star narrates in its experiences of night and day?
Nice post.
Blasphemous Aesthete
Well, shit, M. This is what I love about your writing. It's bitter but it's the kind of bitter that your tongue longs to taste after banal sweetness and before acrimonious wrangles. It's been a while and this was worth checking back on.
-S
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