Thursday, July 21, 2011

Dead Tree In a Snowglobe He Balanced on His Hand

 

I miss how the trees are in the summertime
I miss saying your name

It feels like this winter has lasted longer than its time
you wrote about it always
towards the end...
almost like you knew everything I wasnt ready for

natures son..
You kept the atmosphere in your chest
and
when it rained, you rained like
every time you closed your eyes on those long nights when you caught sleep with your hands
You'd tuck it under your pillow,until it hissed to you your:


                                                                                          fears
oh (the things you sat alone with)


churning them into nightmares, you'd wake again 
writing about winter
red eyes, sipping tea
melting the veins you crystallized

 staring out the window


                                                                   if only I had listened

to what the world was really saying..

what you always said

beneath your words

and now, consequently, everything feels dead
the only sounds
echoed whispers that hold your sunken melody
whispers...
mistaken dor the lonely mumbles of an old house
or 
a baying dog in the distance
lost

all these embody the void that you have become...
the quiet that separated
us         back         into          individuals


[your nothing but an empty space 
in a room I no longer recognize [..

                                              You are the                                     sound
vibration

(the vibration after sound)
that curls itself inside my hand

the hunger in my stomach squelching protest to all the things 
we can not see

                                                      While,
I was the pale light that fell on the face of a widow
too scared to
tongue the syllable of your name

                                                       While,
I am as grey as winter

dead

in the way that you have become