Stagnant.
In a room with four walls.
Someone once told you that there were only three.
The fourth one is discretionary.
Like your income.
And your words.
They're always spilling out of you
in an urgent attempt
To fill the vast distances
Between your miniscule existences.
But considerably more puzzling
is the true purpose of your storytelling.
Vowels and consanants strung together
Wrap tightly around your indefinite spirit.
Swaddling it up as one would a newborn baby.
Leaving you stifled.
Mummified.
9/9/10
Sleeping is optional
Tell me about the intricate patterns that weave your reality when you're drifting off to sleep. Swaying from consciousness into a world of infinite possibility. Are you alone? Do you think of her? The beautiful woman who once promised you ten thousand lifetimes of everything. She promised to hold your hand and steady you across the stepping stones in the river of consumerism, to the glistening quartz crystal home you built together on the other side.
A haven where brightly colored threads dress the walls. A tapestry of the hardships and the challenges you endeared; together. So many quiet nights by the fire where you braided miles of this yarn, creating an irreplacable showpiece that you hung in the living room as a monument of the trials and tribulations you everlasted.
You promised to laugh at it later, because these struggles seem so miniscule now. On a sofa dressed in compasses. With a design of yellowing maps, and a scarlet trail marking the journey that you suffered. She placed tiny brass push pins to mark every spot along the riverbed where you consumated your love.
Sometimes one pricks you in the bottom when you are readjusting yourself in your blanket. Your eyes close, and suddenly you're there again. With her, and she is flawlessly illuminated by sunlight. A painfully marvellous statue of fertility draped loosely in a white sheet. Frolicking in a bed of lilies as she kisses you on the forehead and tells you that you are her universe. This is the true meaning of our existence, she whispers.
Unattainable.
A haven where brightly colored threads dress the walls. A tapestry of the hardships and the challenges you endeared; together. So many quiet nights by the fire where you braided miles of this yarn, creating an irreplacable showpiece that you hung in the living room as a monument of the trials and tribulations you everlasted.
You promised to laugh at it later, because these struggles seem so miniscule now. On a sofa dressed in compasses. With a design of yellowing maps, and a scarlet trail marking the journey that you suffered. She placed tiny brass push pins to mark every spot along the riverbed where you consumated your love.
Sometimes one pricks you in the bottom when you are readjusting yourself in your blanket. Your eyes close, and suddenly you're there again. With her, and she is flawlessly illuminated by sunlight. A painfully marvellous statue of fertility draped loosely in a white sheet. Frolicking in a bed of lilies as she kisses you on the forehead and tells you that you are her universe. This is the true meaning of our existence, she whispers.
Unattainable.
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