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sugarv3nom
sugarv3nom
books, pens, music, tea / "Let me live, love, and say it well in good sentences." -Sylvia Plath
I don't know yet If I can ever be truly happy, Ever grasp the fleeting experience of undemanding, un-wanting, singular happiness. And maybe I'm young, And maybe it's not love, But I think I've seen what might be a start, In your eyes And in your heart
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Mar 4, 2014
Mar 4, 2014 at 5:03 AM UTC
A Start
Quick steps slosh through thick puddles Pushing forward through the empty, soaking street. The pressing rain blurs sky and earth; Air full with pounding, insistent water. Tugging a soggy gray hood Further down his dripping forehead, He checks the time and breaks into a lopsided run, Briefcase bouncing heavy on tired legs. It's eight forty three Running for the eight forty five bus; It's eight forty four, Running for the Crowded board room meetings, Pressed navy suit jackets, too-tight striped ties; It's eight forty five, Sprinting for Five times breathed office air, Carpets stained with three am coffee spills. A strong, outstretched hand Steadies the man as he rounds a corner, Propelled straight into the small figure leaping across the sidewalk. Slowing to step around the boy- The little boy, Dancing. Arms reaching high, face scrunched towards the glowing, falling, sky. The little boy, In a blue rain coat and yellow boots; In the empty Gray street, In the pounding morning rain. Shyly glancing up Into blank eyes, Moments           stretch                     on the soaking street corner And the small boy with his yellow boots And the tall man with his leather briefcase. The young boy with his tentative smile The tall man with his tired legs. Innocence and wonder reflected Back into the man's eyes As the briefcase clicked against the pavement, As a pair of yellow boots squished into soft new mud, As two heads tilt up to the clouds, Two pairs of eyes close to the sky. Sheets of rain slide over two faces, Over smooth curves and wrinkling paths. The steady, uneven, rhythm of the raindrops is broken By the eight forty five bus By the scrape of the briefcase On the wet pavement By the quickly fading footsteps Disappearing in the rain And then Into A cloud of exhaust
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Mar 4, 2014
Mar 4, 2014 at 4:33 AM UTC
The Eight Forty Five Bus
Quick steps slosh through thick puddles Pushing forward through the empty, soaking street. The pressing rain blurs sky and earth; Air full with pounding, insistent water. Tugging a soggy gray hood Further down his dripping forehead, He checks the time and breaks into a lopsided run, Briefcase bouncing heavy on tired legs. It's eight forty three Running for the eight forty five bus; It's eight forty four, Running for the Crowded board room meetings, Pressed navy suit jackets, too-tight striped ties; It's eight forty five, Sprinting for Five times breathed office air, Carpets stained with three am coffee spills. A strong, outstretched hand Steadies the man as he rounds a corner, Propelled straight into the small figure leaping across the sidewalk. Slowing to step around the boy- The little boy, Dancing. Arms reaching high, face scrunched towards the glowing, falling, sky. The little boy, In a blue rain coat and yellow boots; In the empty Gray street, In the pounding morning rain. Shyly glancing up Into blank eyes, Moments           stretch                     on the soaking street corner And the small boy with his yellow boots And the tall man with his leather briefcase. The young boy with his tentative smile The tall man with his tired legs. Innocence and wonder reflected Back into the man's eyes As the briefcase clicked against the pavement, As a pair of yellow boots squished into soft new mud, As two heads tilt up to the clouds, Two pairs of eyes close to the sky. Sheets of rain slide over two faces, Over smooth curves and wrinkling paths. The steady, uneven, rhythm of the raindrops is broken By the eight forty five bus By the scrape of the briefcase On the wet pavement By the quickly fading footsteps Disappearing in the rain And then Into A cloud of exhaust
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