7.17.2008

SadLittle

Sad. Little. Like a peeled orange on the ground. Citrus Fingers. The squeeze of juice and pulp through teeth. Old hands don't understand. Not supposed to. But could. No sunset. Still ends. Old guard faded navy blue wiped over the skycolor. Black tree silhouettes. Instruments, strings moving silent. Old pictures watch over. Voices through the walls. Voices over distances. Not hate. Age. Repentance fruit. The steady ticking of a bedside alarm clock. Like a timebomb ticktocktick.

Morning. Defeats. All of them.
Morning will hold you. Cradled like newborn calves. And show you the mountainside draped in herself.

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