Grumbling on the floor hands mop the flesh
like windowsills in a torrent trying to grasp what's not wet from the burn of summer
blooms snaking out of their ballet petals like eros in heat but the mirror glimmer
won't save face, all that used to be known
rest to the hands of unknown composition.
Sulking feet grunt to stay tall when eyes
grasp the motion of her hand that's not hers and blur sound under grave. ocean valsing
not recording a single tone while her painted lips craft a voice not remembered neither forgot:
'I'm glad you're alive, thoughts run through the years slept in beauty sadness and seeing eyes
to a face always shut makes me happy in victory.
How are you feeling... hm... Aspen?! Is that
your name, at least you've grown like one.'
a snicker follows.
Focusing to the thinnest shred of light tears could sip inside, her straightened posture,
the crook of her clean neck, the brown honey rivers of her feline eyes, the folded sides of
her plum small lips and the moles around her bushy eyebrows were nothing close
to what memories had drawn down in dics of repetition, who was this woman?
Clowned by the shy blue sky the chest
realised that gender had shown it's form at
last after years of denial from all forms of blabbing mouths and more dead shut eye,
for all the mind knew nothing of what memories spell really is spoken the same way...
Blinking again, wrinkly lips smirk under
another sun bathed book in the narrating
chair flipping over questions in recollection,
the sun shined just like it always used to but older same as the tired eyes he carries for a little over another decade,
guessing scores to bet.
'Perhaps life was just drawn in scrapped
paint, ugly to look at but eventually anything unpleasant becomes bearable and that's
how grown up hearts need to break so
bending can be easier next time, has there been another chance that is and pain dissolves in scars
for the grateful ones to keep wearing as a trophy', he used to say to his grandkids.
Once on that same breezy balcony with
sunrays stacked on top of golding fields and crystal weeped skies the notion of life
foils a profound nocturnal seranade to the drunk sweet end of the journal, scrapped paint
is all that's left behind in the house of
fathoms, eyes shut dark smile
goodbye to this time-ship.