Wednesday, May 5, 2010

jumbled.

a green sky filters out the red light
for a night we only have to be this way
visions call themselves my memories
take their time to focus
no feeling in our hands --
how did i earn my mother's hands?
feeling, paperthin and tossing
not ready to be skylight
something more than sin.
lists of colored objects
change beneath the sea waves.
he forgot the digits
when asked by a little bird
with a name like yours.

2 comments:

  1. you have an abstract instinct in your poetry.
    It takes a lot of time to deduce any meaning from them.
    Maybe I'll improve with time.
    Nice

    Regards

    Blasphemous Aesthete

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  2. i'll admit to having an "abstract instinct," that's definitely what i would call it. this is sort of a mess of words that just happened (hence the title), and a lot of stuff i've been writing lately hasn't made much sense. it's been a weird phase. thanks for reading anyway!

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