When The Death Train Whistles

20 05 2011

Death sat on her shoulder hitching a ride everywhere. She would put it down when it grew heavy and made it walk on its own.

Few words for the way i am feeling, i’m letting the madness take me to the garden. Count the i’s, give me a flower for every one.

I’m a barrel rolling killing off the moss, i’m a warm pie that everyone tucks into, i’m a little bead waiting to be strung.

The heavy curtains closed in the rambling rose theatre, tickets whirlwind under the billboard, the patrons walk home in a daze kicking cans.

Death muse is at the breakfast table, running rings around the reverie children’s souls. We shall allow her voice when our cries die down.

I watch the blackbirds picking out seeds from the autumn flotsam, and I weep as I hear their silent joy while I grieve for you.

We tried to whisper our hidden screams and ended up screaming our secrets.

excerpts from @myarspoetica (twitter)

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lily © 2011

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