somehow, baby i
don't feel quite up to par today.
The people keep talking and the
sun gets in my eyes. i
tried calling your name but
the wind stole my voice
again.
but i guess silence suits you fine.

silk, satin, cotton, cashmere pressed against
my numbed skin.
where are you?

the dew locked up in icicles,
moss buried under endless sheets of snow.
tell me it stays warm that
way.

i stare out at orange street lights and soggy white tire tracks.
i notice the shadows now. they whisper, mumble and creak, but
i can't read the runes. they shy away from me.
Even when i cry they don't come.
can you tell me what they are?
Would you?

-purl-

haha its like a sequel.. i blog so much my life can be complied into one crazy thick book.. fullllll of sheer uselessness. haha. sigh. maybe i should stick to trying out victorian/romantic period type poetry style instead.. this simplistic "contemporary"(i don't mean the definition u find in your dictionaries obviously) one says too much too blatantly.

according to one of the creations of don delilo.. writers use writing.. as "the convinient crutch and alibi for every failure to be decent".. haha sigh.. dont we all somehow find an excuse from everything anyway? sigh. forget it dont want to think about it.

M U S T go Reeeadddd........