it's five a.m and i think i was almost alive today; watched a woman plant a seed, fingers gently prodding the earth (i take another drink, spinning.) and there was the rain, cleansing the concrete of the month's grime and dust- buried deeply in its tired and aching pores (i take another drink, spinning.) i stumble, body weighed down with its own treasure trove of ghosts. uncertainty. knees scraped and bleeding like memories (i pick myself back up, spinning.) i'll always remember your laugh that could turn me into the sun and mountain-plaited rivers; i'll always remember the Artesian woman in her garden- singing, spinning.
Last edited by Dregen at Jan 7, 2017,
Wow! a wonderful piece of writing. Fresh metaphors/simile: "...memories", "..pores", "..ghosts". A dash of magic: "turn me into the sun...". A bit of mystery "..almost alive today". I love it.