United States I gathered up supplies and built a space rocket. Everything was fine, I was shooting for the moon; but then I crash-landed on an island somewhere. I stumbled around for the last several years, and now I've begun getting stuff together and building again. 30 followers / 5.3k words
The shaking, stirring, vibrating snowflakes Hurt my ears but please my eyes, Melting, falling, coalescing, a Snow angel in sweet disguise Waits silently behind the snow storm; Raising slowly its feathered wings, It gathers its stolen, silky due.
A grid, a blank canvas, a blank man. There, out on the grey moor, under a darkening sky, Welcoming the fog, and the Growing disquiet that howls in the distance, Circling.
It's funny when people think I make up the stuff I write, As if I sit around choosing What happens next. Or maybe it's scary, Or maybe it's embarrassing, Because really all I do Is writ down what I see When I close my eyes.
You sit in the corner, Holding the lamp, As we circle around the furniture solemnly Ingesting our medicated alcohol, Living our life in the intervals, Stepping out at the end of the party, One by one, Out of our minds, Into the fire.
Say he went to the mountain To settle a score. Say he went under the waves, Right down to the sea floor. Say he ran away, and don't Call no place home. Can't get what he wants, So he keeps wanting more.
Show me your elements, your mixtures, your Adorable complex surface, Let me Dive within and soak in your enzymes, With my only effort being to reach, to Stretch, to get that most unattainable inner flame Within, to grasp it and burn myself.