I stare at wine, (the candles dance and look like people).
The reflection bounces on the brim (a surreal, green illusion).
I stare at wine, (the rosey glass invites me in).
I can feel my pulse.
Dec 5, 2012
Dec 5, 2012 at 4:37 PM UTC
She stares at the wall and
she curses it all when all is
said and done.
But at night she’s thrown,
by the brink of her bones
like glass into the silent sky.
So she’s suddenly lost in
nothing but rain
with a glimpse of Sanity Hill.
There’s nothing to lose, but
mirrors to gain
in pursuit of cloudless dreams.
And when she wakes
she frantically shakes but
always takes her time—
she sits and sifts
by burying her misfits
beneath the fluff of steel pillows.
She stares at her
chapbooks from Poe and Sylvia
plathed upon her cedar shelf.
She puckers and sighs at "the end of the world"
but remains afraid of herself.
Dec 5, 2012
Dec 5, 2012 at 1:08 PM UTC