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By Marshall Hann Submitted by blessed23 Date: 2007 Sep 15 Comment on this Work [[2007.09.15.05.42.6483]] |
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What have we done to this gift, this treasure, this dying bush that we pluck from the ground and carry along on a road made from clocks and shame, bound together with sinew until it feels as if our hearts will close their eyes and break with serene speed Life seems like a fly clinging, and crawling across the wings of a butterfly in flight Sometimes lucky eyes meet like a cloud of dust slowly settling to the ground and we breathe a little easier for a singular peaceful moment Why, this disease, this desperation for acceptance, for love to hold to feel warm touch (skin touching skin: essence tantalisingly grazing essence) Is it possible for tears, honest, born from agony and shame to cure our feeble souls? (natural holy water) Or does the only elixir for all these days rest in the solemn and silent beast of loneliness |