Weaken by the breeze
he settles like the grumbling of burning embers,
he dreads the color gray.
A freckle in the upper right of his earlobe,
he sighs so close to a cry, for minute in the ice of morning
he holds on to his ears,
to keep what he heard inside as if the
dying flutters of a butterfly.
Today he hides inside,
inside deep pockets rattling with the lost things he found,
faster and faster he walks across
the streets as if it would get him closer
closer to himself, as if late for a bad day,
he goes no where but feels with each step the pain
in the soles of his feet.
*The pain makes the day real,
the pain makes the day real*
the steep hills mimic the thought sky of his heart and how his
mind struggles not to fall backwards but to reach the top.
He never does but instead he spins burning in circles.
The day isn't real anymore, he walks faster.
*The pain makes the day real
The pain makes the day real
The pain makes him real.*
He dreads the gray, the color pervades today.
weaken by the breeze
he circles again returning to where he began
In his mind he counts the shavings of wings
He fell back and his heart closed up the shop early.
In his mind the stone cease to be cast out, cease to ripple
yet the residual still echo faintly, as his ears burn.
*The pain makes the day real.
The pain makes the day real
The pain makes him real*
Weaken by the breeze
he settles like the grumbling of burning embers,
he dreads the color gray.
A freckle in the upper right of his earlobe,
he sighs so close to a cry, for minute in the ice of morning
he holds on to his ears,
to keep what he heard inside as if the
dying flutters of a butterfly.
Today he hides inside,
inside deep pockets rattling with the lost things he found,
faster and faster he walks across
the streets as if it would get him closer
closer to himself, as if late for a bad day,
he goes no where but feels with each step the pain
in the soles of his feet.
*The pain makes the day real,
the pain makes the day real*
the steep hills mimic the thought sky of his heart and how his
mind struggles not to fall backwards but to reach the top.
He never does but instead he spins burning in circles.
The day isn't real anymore, he walks faster.
*The pain makes the day real
The pain makes the day real
The pain makes him real.*
He dreads the gray, the color pervades today.
weaken by the breeze
he circles again returning to where he began
In his mind he counts the shavings of wings
He fell back and his heart closed up the shop early.
In his mind the stone cease to be cast out, cease to ripple
yet the residual still echo faintly, as his ears burn.
*The pain makes the day real.
The real makes the day feel.
The pain makes the day real*
The lost cry of a male butterfly..
Aug 24, 2012
Aug 24, 2012 at 10:00 PM UTC
Weaken by the breeze
he settles like the grumbling of burning embers,
he dreads the color gray.
A freckle in the upper right of his earlobe,
he sighs so close to a cry, for minute in the ice of morning
he holds on to his ears,
to keep what he heard inside as if the
dying flutters of a butterfly.
Today he hides inside,
inside deep pockets rattling with the lost things he found,
faster and faster he walks across
the streets as if it would get him closer
closer to himself, as if late for a bad day,
he goes no where but feels with each step the pain
in the soles of his feet.
*The pain makes the day real,
the pain makes the day real*
the steep hills mimic the thought sky of his heart and how his
mind struggles not to fall backwards but to reach the top.
He never does but instead he spins burning in circles.
The day isn't real anymore, he walks faster.
*The pain makes the day real
The pain makes the day real
The pain makes him real.*
He dreads the gray, the color pervades today.
weaken by the breeze
he circles again returning to where he began
In his mind he counts the shavings of wings
He fell back and his heart closed up the shop early.
In his mind the stone cease to be cast out, cease to ripple
yet the residual still echo faintly, as his ears burn.
*The pain makes the day real.
The pain makes the day real
The pain makes him real*
Weaken by the breeze
he settles like the grumbling of burning embers,
he dreads the color gray.
A freckle in the upper right of his earlobe,
he sighs so close to a cry, for minute in the ice of morning
he holds on to his ears,
to keep what he heard inside as if the
dying flutters of a butterfly.
Today he hides inside,
inside deep pockets rattling with the lost things he found,
faster and faster he walks across
the streets as if it would get him closer
closer to himself, as if late for a bad day,
he goes no where but feels with each step the pain
in the soles of his feet.
*The pain makes the day real,
the pain makes the day real*
the steep hills mimic the thought sky of his heart and how his
mind struggles not to fall backwards but to reach the top.
He never does but instead he spins burning in circles.
The day isn't real anymore, he walks faster.
*The pain makes the day real
The pain makes the day real
The pain makes him real.*
He dreads the gray, the color pervades today.
weaken by the breeze
he circles again returning to where he began
In his mind he counts the shavings of wings
He fell back and his heart closed up the shop early.
In his mind the stone cease to be cast out, cease to ripple
yet the residual still echo faintly, as his ears burn.
*The pain makes the day real.
The real makes the day feel.
The pain makes the day real*
The lost cry of a male butterfly..
