I have you here
inside this bright oven flower
your hands like little suns
heavier than my entire life
as I walk with you above the ice.
I am afraid to drop you
afraid to lose the widowed tears
that even now rain from your lips,
like ants scurrying beneath my feet,
making the face of the lake quiver.
I call out to God my tongue burning
like a feather under your precious suns.
There is only silence in return
and I think we should sink deep into the sea
so that it might carry us home
but you are just a child
and your warmth cries No.
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Second draft
This one is staying put  |
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July 6, 2005
726 bytes 3.5 KB 243×80 StatisticsShare |
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Comments
this one is breathtaking, but i'm having problems with imagery. mark this for further discussion when we get the chance.
--
amelia
=======
"like glass shattering in a clean break
this is the arc of a mistake.
we were like kids with a shotgun
blowing up worlds 'til there were none."
-ida
--
amelia
=======
"like glass shattering in a clean break
this is the arc of a mistake.
we were like kids with a shotgun
blowing up worlds 'til there were none."
-ida
--
amelia
=======
"like glass shattering in a clean break
this is the arc of a mistake.
we were like kids with a shotgun
blowing up worlds 'til there were none."
-ida
--
amelia
=======
"like glass shattering in a clean break
this is the arc of a mistake.
we were like kids with a shotgun
blowing up worlds 'til there were none."
-ida
--
amelia
=======
"like glass shattering in a clean break
this is the arc of a mistake.
we were like kids with a shotgun
blowing up worlds 'til there were none."
-ida
it is difficult for me to comment on your writing.
words so much more often than not only mess things up.
(the commenting words I mean.)
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