Come forth, bury your skinny
necks in the full breath of sky
This world is a guillotine
falling and we sing of blades.
Perhaps then, before the flash,
the drifting listlessness of void,
we might dream ourselves
into a room full of our echos.
Masterpieces of memory,
paired and painted with
our love. Perhaps,
we might learn that prayer
Is the creation of something
beautiful. A single glance
across a crowded room,
a students smile, a poem
written with all the shades
of my mothers laughter.
Mar 1, 2017
Mar 1, 2017 at 10:27 PM UTC
Come forth, bury your skinny
necks in the full breath of sky
This world is a guillotine
falling and we sing of blades.
Perhaps then, before the flash,
the drifting listlessness of void,
we might dream ourselves
into a room full of our echos.
Masterpieces of memory,
paired and painted with
our love. Perhaps,
we might learn that prayer
Is the creation of something
beautiful. A single glance
across a crowded room,
a students smile, a poem
written with all the shades
of my mothers laughter.
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