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Still life.
Three counts the blurry clock, and lies about the time.
We were just here, only a moment ago.
You wore purple lace, and I, naked as shame, grasped at too many threads.
We're woven, you know?
There's a gentleness about the soft glow of iridescent light.
Patchwork auras, the fireflies on memory lane.
Hello recognition, you appear out of reach lately,
you are the fifth, or seventh, to my root.
Harmony and discord. Embrace like tangled lovers
under the soft glow of microwaved family dinners,
glazed eyes under the warm caress of boxed admiration.
There was a mistroke of the still life I'm in,
contrast, stark and chilling, wraps the bed of
lilies I miss.
Unpaint my eyes, every green and brown stroke,
unpaint my ears, they long for harmony.
Unpaint my mouth, so an honest thing may be,
Unpaint my soul, it deserves more than anchors.
But save one last stroke, for that wonderful flower,
that deserves every color I selfishly hoard.
Dear Sir,
Could you please take your talented, and gifted writings somewhere else?
I cannot focus on my own, because my eyes are filled with yours.
They are just too ..
Just too ..
Damn, I ___ you..
^_^
"We are, Each of us angels with only one wing, and we can only fly by embracing one another." -Luciano De Crescenzo