Saturday, 24 April 2010
Not me. Fast as the planes will fly. May the crown fall from your head and whisper along the ground of my empty face and the silence along the road. Sing me your song on the path along which you strode. Don't make me wait for the silence to pray for sun as the rainclouds disperse and my memories say you won't come. Maybe one day I'll wake to your glistening shame as my gold hair falls and the sunbeams murmur your name. Because the moon is a face that watches each step I take and scribes it all down in quiet words for story's sake, though I wish he would not for my footsteps are failing firm. Put your pen down and walk with me from this cold term. The wildness howls. I feel its pull as I stand; indecision to sway, and knowledge from yielding land. You caught it too fast, and now it lies in your palm. Tell it my sighs, and the bluebirds will sell my calm. For this girl is not me. But somehow she looks the same. Your crown whispers by and reminds me to say my name.