it was a crisp winters day
the air was sharp and stung like knives
the sun approached me like a brutal man
and flexed his muscle at my weak heart
trying to make me afraid
i tried to insist that he didn't know what he spoke of
but he was as deaf as he was mute
so i left him standing high up in the sky
on his soapbox on the illusions of light
i walked from my boarding house
to the train station
and climbed aboard its warm casket
and falling into the seat i did say to my companion
that i fear this every day existence
she only peered at me from over her tortoise shell glasses
and cursed the sun for his audacity
setting on her dreams without having been realized
she now keeps them in a hatbox
in her mothers closet
a mystical box coved in runes and drawings of unicorns
but the very things that make it magical
makes her afraid that its uncool
i stand aghast at such blind evil in sheep's clothing
and still the cold creeps in through
from neath the door
and i retreat from its touch
like i fall away from the argument
a coward to the songs ending
i go on seeking beginnings
and hide my face from the sun
the sun he crept back to his cold tomb and wept there all night
and try as could to cheer him
he swore from the bottom of his bottle of *****
that he would never again rise
that he would forsake her
and when i asked of whom he spoke
he only whispered that the moon was a lover that could not be easily forsaken
and so i left him there in the vaults of night
with his pools of sorrow gathering into a nor'easter
with his sorrows gathering into a broken ship
for a fool like me to venture forth in
flexed his muscle at my weak heart
and i did go home once again
to hide my face from the sun
i will wait for a spring day
Dec 26, 2013
Dec 26, 2013 at 10:32 PM UTC
it was a crisp winters day
the air was sharp and stung like knives
the sun approached me like a brutal man
and flexed his muscle at my weak heart
trying to make me afraid
i tried to insist that he didn't know what he spoke of
but he was as deaf as he was mute
so i left him standing high up in the sky
on his soapbox on the illusions of light
i walked from my boarding house
to the train station
and climbed aboard its warm casket
and falling into the seat i did say to my companion
that i fear this every day existence
she only peered at me from over her tortoise shell glasses
and cursed the sun for his audacity
setting on her dreams without having been realized
she now keeps them in a hatbox
in her mothers closet
a mystical box coved in runes and drawings of unicorns
but the very things that make it magical
makes her afraid that its uncool
i stand aghast at such blind evil in sheep's clothing
and still the cold creeps in through
from neath the door
and i retreat from its touch
like i fall away from the argument
a coward to the songs ending
i go on seeking beginnings
and hide my face from the sun
the sun he crept back to his cold tomb and wept there all night
and try as could to cheer him
he swore from the bottom of his bottle of *****
that he would never again rise
that he would forsake her
and when i asked of whom he spoke
he only whispered that the moon was a lover that could not be easily forsaken
and so i left him there in the vaults of night
with his pools of sorrow gathering into a nor'easter
with his sorrows gathering into a broken ship
for a fool like me to venture forth in
flexed his muscle at my weak heart
and i did go home once again
to hide my face from the sun
i will wait for a spring day
dedicated to keira knightley
Request permission to use this poem