My eyes would discard those things that would
threaten to force my heart torn between that
which is warm and that which is now forlorn.
This house is no home;
it’s a place to press, press it out until it’s gone.
It’s all gone from here now.
Speak no feeling, no, I don’t believe you.
My eyes discard the happenings.
(click on the image for “River.mp3″)
sometimes nothing is enough…
Dunno how to make an entry…so I’ll make clearings here and there…
“pAlM ReAdINg”
Take my hand.
Enterlaced fingers; webbed skin.
Deep breath now, you get a glimpse within.
Follow yourself there.
Chasing white rabbits past love lines…
past life lines…
mounting every curve,
rounding-off the edges,
reaching my fingertips
(i guess i’m on a “hand thing”)…………
MY FINGERTIPS
HAVE TOUCHED THE TEXTURE OF SWEET DREAMS.
MY NAILS
HAVE CLAWED THE TOMBSTONES OF NIGHTMARES.
MY PALMS
HAVE PRESSED AGAINST THE WINDOWS OF SOULS.
THESE FISTS
SCRAPED BLOODY THE STONE.
-s