"planate" poems
the beginning was a serrated dawn
past and imaginations folded
like the creased edges of a paper fan
raindrops were not calculated trajectories
I had once forced upon myself
but a distant memory
unbeknownst to those who never look past
the tide of their vision
impressions pressed into our days
duties followed; marching to the beat of predecessors
yet the tide rolls in
forevermore relinquishing celestial pull
twilight falls with grievances long overdue
the water births it's friction
straying from wind's course
the end was a planate dusk
chimeric chances and futures rejoiced
like the musical notes of the breeze
the paper fan now blew
Oct 19, 2010
Oct 19, 2010 at 4:17 PM UTC
He reads me like the book he flips through pages at night when he can't sleep, and he thinks that he can't ever temper with the story, when he changes it every time his fingers run down the sides of the pages.
He sees the wrinkles, he tries to help because he won't close the covers till they are planate, and the soaked papers dry.
In all the wonders he can transact, to my heart he did best. He is still at it, making ours a freakishly beautiful drawn story on this wide canvas he calls 'forever'. Forever that is never enough for him, for us. He keeps on adding pages, and papers, attaching them to the still life.
If one day things don't work out, it might then be a story that souls in love would come to venture.
Apr 9, 2017
Apr 9, 2017 at 3:18 PM UTC