Someday I will tell my story, arrow-straight, from root to bloom. I will not rely on cyphers and drive-by revelations, leaving traces lingering between the lines and behind the brick work. I will tighten my spokes and stop spinning my wheels, engaged at last with the moment and the road. Each key stroke won't find music, but the spread of letters might find a song. Someday I will be still enough to move again. Nothing hurts as much as the sameness we bend tomorrow towards.
The words are lost for the moment. They cling to steam, escape as risen vapor. They hide between the places and the things that fill them, always slipping slightly backwards, tumbling slowly just out of reach. Each line tracing some rumor comes like swimming through stone, though the pressure births no diamonds. The world flows past, all skies and shadows. Flames unfurl and smoke swallows all our prayers.
Language gives heed of thoughts that sieve through the brambles, like the memory of a friend long since lost to time. Remembering the old ease, the steady labor. The pleasure and belief. This hollow, lonesome hour spreads like burned oil, staining even the seeing of the spill. Trailing more hours, more days-- years left of regret and confusion. The seeds of this malignancy birthing whole fields of promise left fallow. Tomorrow just another word, flung carelessly against the empty page, meaning never.
The words are lost for the moment. They cling to steam, escape as risen vapor. They hide between the places and the things that fill them, always slipping slightly backwards, tumbling slowly just out of reach. Each line tracing some rumor comes like swimming through stone, though the pressure births no diamonds. The world flows past, all skies and shadows. Flames unfurl and smoke swallows all our prayers.
Language gives heed of thoughts that sieve through the brambles, like the memory of a friend long since lost to time. Remembering the old ease, the steady labor. The pleasure and belief. This hollow, lonesome hour spreads like burned oil, staining even the seeing of the spill. Trailing more hours, more days-- years left of regret and confusion. The seeds of this malignancy birthing whole fields of promise left fallow. Tomorrow just another word, flung carelessly against the empty page, meaning never.
suicidewithakiss:
Wow, that was very well written. It paint vivid images in my mind and you really got your point across in a deep and meaningful way. I really enjoyed reading that!
suicidewithakiss:
You're welcome . And I know exactly what you mean. I do, however, find that unexpected acts of kindness have a greater effect on me due to their nature. Unfortunately, the heat was no exception today so I'm still frying haha