"molt" poems
In rows like crumpled paper set,
The way one might design a brooch,
There sets a sparkle down so purely
Capital, beyond reproach and sure
She is the blackest flea who sits
Upon an old green dog, now should
You query, her name's a pond. In Gaelic
It's pronounced: Baile Átha Cliath—
But in Irish she's plain, mightily named,
Dublin. Where broods the dove, linnet
And swan. Now take them pi'jons, they got
Dank habits and linnets lament the silent
Stones. Sure, the goose gave out and took
To the air, but the swans, they've landed,
To roost, enchanted as 'Children of Lir,'
And so becomes a changeling child's
Fair city, for in her anointed proximity,
Gracious white birds do bathe and molt,
Supplied as I can tell, she looks black-
Pooled in clusters, long side her creases.
Stout nectar flows in near every nook
And cranny, but yer man, he's never
Busy, that malty fish, daftly avoids,
Swimming spirals round like buggies
Do on petals, he'd rather grace gardens
By drinking their dew. O Dublin town,
She wends her ways and rows her houses
Round-a-bout on cobbled shores in tribute
To sprite, deary and fey, Anna Livia—
Who like a stem of blood, stabs right
To the heart of Dublin Bay— and proud
As a crowned thorny, who once had reeked,
She's bloomed large, into one grandeous
Beauty, like a céilí so finely fiddled—
A sandy, spirited, bombastic beach-
Flower, she is, a flag so fitting upon
The doons. In dream, I flocked to her
Like the wild geese and saw her coy'd
Repose and there I spied, from mackerel
Skies— one monstrous, Irish rose!
Aug 31, 2013
Aug 31, 2013 at 2:07 PM UTC
Only friendship.
You made yourself clear - clear as glass - that it could never be more.
But as I too am glass, a small shard of me broke off and shattered.
And why did it ignite my spirit to be in your presence, to be enfolded in your warmth
Why, why did it set my heart aflame, burn me with such flammable, incendiary envy
To see you lust after another, to want far beyond friendship with them
Why did that melt me
I was already committed to another, no matter if it was a dry, barren whisper of once-existing love or a forest of endless rain
It was commitment
Yet in spite of this, I continued to melt
Melting, right down to my core
Where I am just sand
Vulnerable, exposed, walked-on sand that could, at any second, be picked up by the wind and taken to another pit of uncertainty
But you
You dropped the empty attempts
And you began giving me your time
You showed me the naïveté that I am, and you took my hand and led me through a dark room
It was cold, and I was afraid
And you could not tell me that "everything would be okay"
Because this was real, unfiltered life you were motioning to before me
And though it was not a fully comfortable realisation,
The cold slowly thawed, from the outsides into my core, my sand
And as I thawed, as you too made yourself more vulnerable,
I at last began to take shape
Perhaps I have a calling
Beyond this fragile shell I consistently run back to for shelter, return to when it yearns back for my unearthed body to be protected again
But I knew better,
That when you molt from your armour,
Its purpose has been used up, and it is now just an empty shell, and it is time for that shell to be discarded.
And now, in my infantile flesh,
I trust that you can be my protector until my new shell can learn to harden
I am still unsure today if it has solidified,
Because I am focused elsewhere
Focused on you
My heart's every beat feels light at the remembrance of you
My mind's every thought a whirlwind
From the dissonance of reaching for you and being tempted to go back under the comfort of my old shell, from the knowledge that these two cannot coexist
But my soul, my soul is nearing soundness at last
Because with you here, I feel that my honest identity is at last coming to life
With you here,
Your breezes blow, but I do not fear that I will be carried away
Your shore arrives, but I do not fear that I am going to wash away
Though it was you who dared grind me down to my initial state of innocent sand,
You have sculpted me, even with the uselessness that I've felt I am
Shown me my potential
And made me a flourishing seashore.
Oct 17, 2014
Oct 17, 2014 at 10:39 AM UTC
Becoming myself
Rising from the ashes of a girl
Into the fires of womanhood
I am between
Slowly, gradually
I am finding things about myself
that I never knew
Was it that I never asked?
Or is it newly hatched?
That I'll never know
But surely I am becoming me
Flaming feathers of confidence rising every month or so
As I molt my childhood fears
My body shifts to accommodate for life ahead
And make me beautiful
Victory comes closer
As required schooling gets closer to ending and college creeps in
Drama is soon to taint my crimson
Pressure increases
But I will continue to transform
Despite all this
And become the brightest phoenix I can be
May 24, 2014
May 24, 2014 at 4:30 PM UTC
tempting trappings glow
ghostly garments flow
hair winds bright like sunshine ropes
in my velvet dreams
sequel skin as I grin
stops only if I wait
gentle limbs with no end
churn a heart of clay
within, without
beneath, about
outside in, inside doubt
behind the breach
roundabout route
beyond my reach, right way out
seasoned strangers
inner part dark
destined dangers
apart from spark
flurried passions molt
storied bastions bolt
fire blinds light like fog eats smoke
in my velvet dreams
© Jason Cole
Jun 20, 2015
Jun 20, 2015 at 5:52 PM UTC
In rows like crumpled paper set,
The way one might design a brooch,
There sets a sparkle down so purely
Capital, beyond reproach and sure
She is the blackest flea who sits
Upon an old green dog, now should
You query, her name's a pond. In Gaelic
It's pronounced: Baile Átha Cliath—
But in Irish she's plain, mightily named,
Dublin. Where broods the dove, linnet
And swan. Now take them pi'jons, they got
Dank habits and linnets lament the silent
Stones. Sure, the goose gave out and took
To the air, but the swans, they've landed,
To roost, enchanted as 'Children of Lir,'
And so becomes a changeling child's
Fair city, for in her anointed proximity,
Gracious white birds do bathe and molt,
Supplied as I can tell, she looks black-
Pooled in clusters, long side her creases.
Stout nectar flows in near every nook
And cranny, but yer man, he's never
Busy, that malty fish, daftly avoids,
Swimming spirals round like buggies
Do on petals, he'd rather grace gardens
By drinking their dew. O Dublin town,
She wends her ways and rows her houses
Round-a-bout on cobbled shores in tribute
To sprite, deary and fey, Anna Livia—
Who like a stem of blood, stabs right
To the heart of Dublin Bay— and proud
As a crowned thorny, who once had reeked,
She's bloomed large, into one grandeous
Beauty, like a céilí so finely fiddled—
A sandy, spirited, bombastic beach-
Flower, she is, a flag so fitting upon
The doons. In dream, I flocked to her
Like the wild geese and saw her coy'd
Repose and there I spied, from mackerel
Skies— one monstrous, Irish rose!
Mar 17, 2013
Mar 17, 2013 at 8:11 PM UTC
fickle day
leaf-chaser squalls
end-of-summer molt
‘white bellies’
the dry gale has begun
pick and claw
limited feeding & foraging
beam winds, warps
and tides
the dry gale has begun
swimming legs
swimming legs
where is bottom?
Dec 11, 2012
Dec 11, 2012 at 2:21 AM UTC
embers like the roasting of firewood
rocks you would find deep in the mantle of the planet
turn to royal purple
to a deep midnight blue
Mystic origins
fades and fades
into immeasurable darkness
I often sit and wonder:
why must I always say bye
why can’t it stay a while longer
why is it so unaffected
so glorious
as I molt and molt in misery
I’m ranting now
Its like the tighter I hold on to it
Squeeze him to myself
The more it flows; he flows
metaphysical.
just like hands full of sand grains
draining from both wrists
loosely like the dark unfathomable waves
I miss you darling, but is it really
you I miss
Oh sunshine?
Dimming over a limitless horizon
Reaching infinity
as I approach zero
I’ve always hated calculus.
can’t see the clouds now, they’re turning darker
strange shapes they take on
tears roll near the rims
of kohl stripped eyes
Traditional, perhaps .
they flow now
rolling loosely like ocean waves
As I watch the night take over
Nov 12, 2015
Nov 12, 2015 at 12:36 PM UTC
In rows like crumpled paper set,
The way one might design a brooch,
There sets a sparkle down so purely
Capital, beyond reproach and sure
She is the blackest flea who sits
Upon an old green dog, now should
You query, her name's a pond. In Gaelic
It's pronounced: Baile Átha Cliath—
But in Irish she's plain, mightily named,
Dublin. Where broods the dove, linnet
And swan. Now take them pi'jons, they got
Dank habits and linnets lament the silent
Stones. Sure, the goose gave out and took
To the air, but the swans, they've landed,
To roost, enchanted as 'Children of Lir,'
And so becomes a changeling child's
Fair city, for in her anointed proximity,
Gracious white birds do bathe and molt,
Supplied as I can tell, she looks black-
Pooled in clusters, long side her creases.
Stout nectar flows in near every nook
And cranny, but yer man, he's never
Busy, that malty fish, daftly avoids,
Swimming spirals round like buggies
Do on petals, he'd rather grace gardens
By drinking their dew. O Dublin town,
She wends her ways and rows her houses
Round-a-bout on cobbled shores in tribute
To sprite, deary and fey, Anna Livia—
Who like a stem of blood, stabs right
To the heart of Dublin Bay— and proud
As a crowned thorny, who once had reeked,
She's bloomed large, into one grandeous
Beauty, like a céilí so finely fiddled—
A sandy, spirited, bombastic beach-
Flower, she is, a flag so fitting upon
The doons. In dream, I flocked to her
Like the wild geese and saw her coy'd
Repose and there I spied, from mackerel
Skies— one monstrous, Irish rose!
Sep 30, 2012
Sep 30, 2012 at 3:36 PM UTC
Gaping voids attached
at velvet hems reveal
An oscillating, silky shrine
of serpentine appeal
A sacellum of spit
where crimson vipers preach
A sermon dispossessed of words
on biting without teeth
Two lithe reptilian wrestlers
in acrobatic trance
To recompose the primal theme
from the procreating dance
They sway in mirrored unison
as heaven’s gates converge
They lick their tongues in twisting prose
and gustatory tones emerge
In this bacchanal of senses
where feelings taste of spoken sights
The serpents molt beyond their essence
onto a plane of new delights
There they share a sounding vision
muscles blink in harmony
Hissing iridescent rhythms
At last, the panting cyclopes
reach the art of seeing
eye to whispering eye
through the instrument of speech.
Jun 27, 2018
Jun 27, 2018 at 5:29 AM UTC
I never leave the West when it isn’t raining,
My brother says to me through the phone.
He is on his way back
over the Rockies and through Nebraska.
He’ll never make it intact—
hands fuse to the steering wheel
like nylons on a burn victim,
knees and elbows bolted in
precise angles keeping the car straight,
tires pulling everything forward.
One foot is the pedal, one becomes the floor mat.
Shoulder to armpit with a semi truck
hauling jet wings from Denver,
he notices the paths of rivets
like bread lines in Omaha.
Some of them are starving.
But where is the rest, the airplane body
without its wings? A hollow silo,
pilot in a cockpit
not going anywhere.
I think airplanes molt this time of year.
It’s still raining or it will be,
the white-lined highways
will carry you here unscathed.
Feb 11, 2012
Feb 11, 2012 at 12:05 PM UTC
In rows like crumpled paper set,
The way one might design a brooch,
There sets a sparkle down so purely
Capital, beyond reproach and sure
She is the blackest flea who sits
Upon an old green dog, now should
You query, her name's a pond. In Gaelic
It's pronounced: Baile Átha Cliath—
But in Irish she's plain, mightily named,
Dublin. Where broods the dove, linnet
And swan. Now take them pi'jons, they got
Dank habits and linnets lament the silent
Stones. Sure, the goose gave out and took
To the air, but the swans, they've landed,
To roost, enchanted as 'Children of Lir,'
And so becomes a changeling child's
Fair city, for in her anointed proximity,
Gracious white birds do bathe and molt,
Supplied as I can tell, she looks black-
Pooled in clusters, long side her creases.
Stout nectar flows in near every nook
And cranny, but yer man, he's never
Busy, that malty fish, daftly avoids,
Swimming spirals round like buggies
Do on petals, he'd rather grace gardens
By drinking their dew. O Dublin town,
She wends her ways and rows her houses
Round-a-bout on cobbled shores in tribute
To sprite, deary and fey, Anna Livia—
Who like a stem of blood, stabs right
To the heart of Dublin Bay— and proud
As a crowned thorny, who once had reeked,
She's bloomed large, into one grandeous
Beauty, like a céilí so finely fiddled—
A sandy, spirited, bombastic beach-
Flower, she is, a flag so fitting upon
The doons. In dream, I flocked to her
Like the wild geese and saw her coy'd
Repose and there I spied, from mackerel
Skies— one monstrous, Irish rose!
Apr 13, 2013
Apr 13, 2013 at 12:31 PM UTC
I bet you didn't know that i have to molt,
I shed my shell as i grow,
This is when I'm most vulnerable,
I have to slip, slide and hide beneath the coral bed.
When i sense an attack i stop my gentle stroll,
I curl and uncurl my abdomen,
I swim backwards,
Keeping one beady, devilish eye upon the threatening team.
I have blue blood, a fact i bet you didn't know,
But still you drag me from my home,
And i feel the heat of the boiling water,
I crack, crumble and croak - on to some ***** plate I'm thrown.
Aug 28, 2012
Aug 28, 2012 at 6:10 AM UTC
Find yourself
Even in the clutter of chores
In the whistle of pressure cooker
In the clash of dishes and utensils
Search yourself
In the aroma of spices
In the color of vegetables
In the routines along the kitchen platform
In the rich gravies and the brew of juices!
Look out for yourself
In the clean mirrors
Along that fine line of kohl
In the strokes of the mascara
Over the gloss of lip shades
In that dot of bindi
Hold on to yourself
In the newness
With time, space and people
Evolve...not change!
Molt...not skin off!
Wear a new color over the base...de-color not!
Even in the dark
Can you not see thy radiant self
Glowing appraised from within!
You be your master
Look for traces of yourself
In your eye's mirror!
May 17, 2013
May 17, 2013 at 2:26 AM UTC
In rows like crumpled paper set,
The way one might design a brooch,
There sets a sparkle down so purely
Capital, beyond reproach and sure
She is the blackest flea who sits
Upon an old green dog, now should
You query, her name's a pond. In Gaelic
It's pronounced: Baile Átha Cliath—
But in Irish she's plain, mightily named,
Dublin. Where broods the dove, linnet
And swan. Now take them pi'jons, they got
Dank habits and linnets lament the silent
Stones. Sure, the goose gave out and took
To the air, but the swans, they've landed,
To roost, enchanted as 'Children of Lir,'
And so becomes a changeling child's
Fair city, for in her anointed proximity,
Gracious white birds do bathe and molt,
Supplied as I can tell, she looks black-
Pooled in clusters, long side her creases.
Stout nectar flows in near every nook
And cranny, but yer man, he's never
Busy, that malty fish, daftly avoids,
Swimming spirals round like buggies
Do on petals, he'd rather grace gardens
By drinking their dew. O Dublin town,
She wends her ways and rows her houses
Round-a-bout on cobbled shores in tribute
To sprite, deary and fey, Anna Livia—
Who like a stem of blood, stabs right
To the heart of Dublin Bay— and proud
As a crowned thorny, who once had reeked,
She's bloomed large, into one grandeous
Beauty, like a céilí so finely fiddled—
A sandy, spirited, bombastic beach-
Flower, she is, a flag so fitting upon
The doons. In dream, I flocked to her
Like the wild geese and saw her coy'd
Repose and there I spied, from mackerel
Skies— one monstrous, Irish rose!
Sep 17, 2014
Sep 17, 2014 at 2:49 PM UTC
One of the ways you lied was quite hard to describe
A riddle of ridicule laced with flaring shoe laces
***** nudist desires smelt of pure hash bury mayo
Feeling as if the end of the dawn would just be the beginning
To pleasure the thought of you was something I once liked to do
Now no longer
For the song bird can only sing for so long
Before their feathers molt to hear a call to move on
Move on blonde lady long legs
We are always meeting and moving on
Towards a sky which crashes silently
Quenching the thirst of many
So on a black rimmed earth a universe folds and folds and folds
Where men travel far not knowing where they go
Explore the neck of your lover to see that she has another
Each bell in the row rings as if it were the first time
Crack yourself up to hear the laughter that you hide away in your room
At first you may be surprised but the twang will not die unless
You
Will it
Night whistles through me
For I am not here
I am soon to be gone
But not to no grave
Each note guides itself upon a road that man must draw to understand
They take pride in cracking magic that laughs at our attempts
And our
Experiments
The word seemed to mean something once
People used to mean something also
Nowadays
All I see
Are comma break decimals
And funeral homes
Jun 5, 2011
Jun 5, 2011 at 11:53 PM UTC
I hate to say this, but I miss you
On days when I’m angry at you
I recount every memory of you
I miss you on the saddest days and even the most delightful ones
I hate to say this, but I love you
I’ve loved your fairly flaws and even resented myself for loving you
I loved you from the very beginning, I bet I’d do till the end
I love you like molt to holes
I guess, I love every curve of you
Permit me to say this, but I hate you
I hate the way you make me smile
How you get to my skin
I hate how your voice brightens up my day
I hate the ease I feel when talking to you in distress
I hate how I feel when you call me nick names
Gosh! I love them all!
I guess, I called for a white lie
I miss you as my person
I miss the fact that it was just the two of us
I hate I have to share you…
Not you, but the concept of you
I guess I hate myself more for harboring these thoughts I do
But in the end, all these conflicting emotions…
I just miss you.
@Bellah
Jan 13, 2024
Jan 13, 2024 at 3:12 AM UTC
When the rain falls down
And there's sadness all around
Your hands reach through
And wake me up anew
At your touch I feel a jolt
With rebirth start to molt
Skin quickly falls away
As your heart holds mine sway
I have died, and gladly so
Only better in your throes
From your love I am alive
As you and I we'll thrive.
Jan 31, 2012
Jan 31, 2012 at 3:43 PM UTC
.
In rows like crumpled paper set,
The way one might design a brooch,
There sets a sparkle down so purely
Capital, beyond reproach and sure
She is the blackest flea who sits
Upon an old green dog, now should
You query, her name's a pond. In Gaelic
It's pronounced: Baile Átha Cliath—
But in Irish she's plain, mightily named,
Dublin. Where broods the dove, linnet
And swan. Now take them pi'jons, they got
Dank habits and linnets lament the silent
Stones. Sure, the goose gave out and took
To the air, but the swans, they've landed,
To roost, enchanted as 'Children of Lir,'
And so becomes a changeling child's
Fair city, for in her anointed proximity,
Gracious white birds do bathe and molt,
Supplied as I can tell, she looks black-
Pooled in clusters, long side her creases.
Stout nectar flows in near every nook
And cranny, but yer man, he's never
Busy, that malty fish, daftly avoids,
Swimming spirals round like buggies
Do on petals, he'd rather grace gardens
By drinking their dew. O Dublin town,
She wends her ways and rows her houses
Round-a-bout on cobbled shores in tribute
To sprite, deary and fey, Anna Livia—
Who like a stem of blood, stabs right
To the heart of Dublin Bay— and proud
As a crowned thorny, who once had reeked,
She's bloomed large, into one grandeous
Beauty, like a céilí so finely fiddled—
A sandy, spirited, bombastic beach-
Flower, she is, a flag so fitting upon
The doons. In dream, I flocked to her
Like the wild geese and saw her coy'd
Repose and there I spied, from mackerel
Skies— one monstrous, Irish rose!
Feb 15, 2016
Feb 15, 2016 at 3:48 PM UTC
When the silence speaks volumes
I will molt away
reborn with brilliant wings
of silken brown and gray
Oct 27, 2011
Oct 27, 2011 at 6:49 PM UTC
William raked the leaves and dry pine needles in silence, a reverence that, to him, seemed simple and appropriate in the cemetery. Mother was close by arranging silk flowers to place on his grandparents' graves, a festive red splash of color in celebration of the Christmas season despite the unseasonal warmth and humidity in the air.
"Can you believe the weather," he calls out to his mother. "Grandma and Papa would have loved this."
"Yes, they would have," she replied. "I'm ready if you are. We still have some errands to run before it gets too much later."
William bent down and scooped the loose pile of nature's molt off the graves and placed it in an old plastic shopping bag. "I'll go throw this in the trash while you set up the flowers, that way we can get moving with the day."
Mother set to work on the bronze vase as William walked away to the trash can ten yards distant. He was grateful for her presence, not just for the help in maintaining the graves, but also because it reinforced to him that she was the best mom he could have ever asked for. The graves were not those of her parents, but belonged to his father's parents. William thought it was a great show of respect for her to help him. Father had passed a year before either of his parents. Not that it much mattered; William's father had seemingly forgotten both William and his own parents somewhere along the way. Father had given all his attention to his new wife for the last few years of his life.
"All done! Just let me pull these last few weeds before we go," Mother said. William nodded acknowledgement and absent-mindedly wandered the surrounding grave plots. Unknown faces of unfamiliar names blanketed the grounds nearby. He found himself suddenly wondering if he had even visited his father's grave. Feeling ashamed, he began searching in earnest for the site of his father's final resting place. He thought it was close at hand, perhaps in the vicinity of the small copse of trees a few dozen yards east of his grandparents.
After a ten minute search, William realized he could not find it on his own. Mom will know, I will ask her, he thought. "Hey Mom, I know this sounds weird, but I can't find Dad's grave...where is it?"
Mother cocked her head slightly, and after a brief pause says, "Will, your father was cremated, and your stepmother told us that she spread the ashes at sea, but we can't be sure that she really did."
"Oh. I forgot."
Dec 9, 2013
Dec 9, 2013 at 8:58 PM UTC
GUN
I can’t decide: the temple
or the mouth. In my mouth
it reminds me of holding a spoon
on my tongue, or when I leaned pennies against
my gums. It is like licking the key to the shed, 1999.
The temple reminds me of my mother’s thumb
Pressing against circularly, circularly.
I shoot.
I wake up in front of a computer screen.
The air crashes together rippling
like a snake digests small rodents. I wake up next
to a beautiful woman. The explosion comes in
layers of jagged red and parallel yellow, like a cartoon.
PILLS
Swallow-Puke-Swallow-Can-
not-let-mybody-winthis-one-Ilock-
-thedoor-andleave-ano-
-te-
No-one-should-come-look
-ing-for-me.
TRAIN
Don’t notice the figure lowering himself
onto the tracks, pausing to consider lying down
then the light comes, and I turn toward it
letting my bag slide from me. My jackets molt.
The only sound is the plank rattles of feet
running south. The only feeling is the space
between a cloud and the crack of lightning.
The birth. Light envelopes the figure.
JUMPING
I leap
far
because (Bernoulli’s Principle) not
wanting to be sucked back
against the side of the build
ing, like examples:
window-blinds
shower curtains.
I realize every time
I argued(lied) airplanes were safe.
This is when (building) I hit.
CAR
I am with you,
Jenny. I couldn’t do this
without you. I hold your hand
and realize I have never touched your
skin until this moment. Neither of our hands
are cold. The fumes coming from the siphon hose
are warm. I smell the dirtbike from the time,
9 years old, I topped the hill. Beyond,
are wildflowers. I cannot remember if this
is a dream. Waking up, Jenny,
our hands are
falling apart. Jenny,
your hand has not gone limp,
but it has lifted like a jellyfish.
Dec 30, 2010
Dec 30, 2010 at 1:11 PM UTC
You know nothing – she said,
Stepping out of the flames.
At that moment I knew
We ain't playing no games.
With desire I burned.
Her immaculate blaze –
Nothing else did I yearn.
Pure as pharos her gaze.
… And we danced, and we swerved,
Glints and flickers beside.
So august our verve
Which no woe would betide.
…In a flash she took off –
The mirage molt away,
But my sorrow paid off –
I live on for the day.
11-3-2017
Mar 11, 2017
Mar 11, 2017 at 12:54 AM UTC
Yes, you are the cream of the crop;
the man on top.
But you aren't that special.
The throne you hold high
at the top of your lie
is anything but deserved.
So go and get ******
if it makes you feel at home.
But I won't condone your narcissism.
For your mental state
is what brings to me the hate
and the pain that is intolerable.
You say you're a friend.
But then where, friend, was your hand
when you didn't stand by me?
When I was so lost
that you couldn't even toss
the biggest object in the world to find me.
Yes, you are the king of the sky;
the man so fly,
you can't contain it.
The feathers you ruffle,
so the world thinks you're trouble,
is an obvious adaptation.
Evolution will hide
the secret inside.
As will I, since I know it.
But someday it will leak
and you'll open your beak
to squawk at us all; save it.
For I have done my part;
gave access to my heart.
Even after you repeatedly trampled it.
So go and fly, bird.
Tell more victims your word
before the annual molt begins.
Yes, you are the size of a bee;
As small as me.
If only your ego could tell you.
Feb 1, 2011
Feb 1, 2011 at 5:42 AM UTC
The air is crisp.
Crisp, that is the word my dad used to describe Gwen's voice after the No Doubt concert. I was eight then.
Crisp, the word I thought of, when I was flicking that brown lighter I thought it would be funny to buy, sitting on the stoop. Striking the wheel, careful not to hit the little red button. The air swept against the sunglasses I paid too much for with the lenses that are mismatched and the sweater my mom bought me two christmases ago that originally I hated.
Falling leaves drift by those little windows to my soul but I am too distracted by the thought of him coming to pick me up to try to attach them back to the tree. Too bad too, because with every leaf detached, comes winter further on my face.
Thats when the crystals fall from my dreams, and cover the once adobe hills in spells of skyscrapers. Those are the guys who form tools out of my can of hairspray and chip at the ozone trying to scrape off the blue, and see what all that paint is covering. Icarus is horrified.
Oct 15, 2013
Oct 15, 2013 at 2:52 PM UTC
And when I molt
you make a headdress of the selves that
have fallen from me with time.
Like you, they are colourful and cautious.
And as you carefully creep skyward,
I throw myself down in the cool grasses
of your lengthening shadow.
I was tired. It made sense to rest.
And so we played with feathers and inches
as children do.
Running in circles and circles until we fell asleep holding hands.
What were we,
but our love?
Sep 18, 2013
Sep 18, 2013 at 9:48 AM UTC