Amanita Mary
Bluelighter
- Joined
- Sep 28, 2006
- Messages
- 207
it's been a while since ive written, but my entire perspective on life has changed due some pretty dramatic events... so hello again - here's a poem about a friend of mine who is very glum at the moment...
Scarf scruffled, ruffled through ridges
of my cracked calloused fingers
a witch friends' misery lingers in the corner
of a rain-slick bricked hallway
near the Doorway
leak morbid tears and lonesome fears
drenched with glum and the scum-scraped raw-raped
weight of mind. face-tragic Down
with jagged angry hands... arms spinning sulk-sagging
by her side - not dancing
glass cat-eye magic - and I miss her
- I miss her magic hands -
Shakespeare spouts in wooden cracked chairs now
and people stomp foul boots like rain
up the stairs and muffle our sound
I sit devoured with stories of a mothers
infrequent love; surfaced memories of grief
showered upon my pleading ears
for some relief ~ and her pleas fly into me
~like doves~ And men speak and bare their feet
and the gloomy girl sits sifting bare-footed
shifting words flipping pages whole with
wandering soul
dripping with a life-gifted
-lost- but centuries greater than the weighted shine of gold
Patiently I wait and wear my eyes low
prepare them for the tremendous glow that
always follows
a storm so great and cold.
Scarf scruffled, ruffled through ridges
of my cracked calloused fingers
a witch friends' misery lingers in the corner
of a rain-slick bricked hallway
near the Doorway
leak morbid tears and lonesome fears
drenched with glum and the scum-scraped raw-raped
weight of mind. face-tragic Down
with jagged angry hands... arms spinning sulk-sagging
by her side - not dancing
glass cat-eye magic - and I miss her
- I miss her magic hands -
Shakespeare spouts in wooden cracked chairs now
and people stomp foul boots like rain
up the stairs and muffle our sound
I sit devoured with stories of a mothers
infrequent love; surfaced memories of grief
showered upon my pleading ears
for some relief ~ and her pleas fly into me
~like doves~ And men speak and bare their feet
and the gloomy girl sits sifting bare-footed
shifting words flipping pages whole with
wandering soul
dripping with a life-gifted
-lost- but centuries greater than the weighted shine of gold
Patiently I wait and wear my eyes low
prepare them for the tremendous glow that
always follows
a storm so great and cold.
