I even hear the mountains
the way they laugh
up and down their blue sides
and down in the water
the fish cry
and the water
is their tears.
I listen to the water
on nights I drink away
and the sadness becomes so great
I hear it in my clock
it becomes knobs upon my dresser
it becomes paper on the floor
it becomes a shoehorn
a laundry ticket
it becomes
cigarette smoke
climbing a chapel of dark vines. . .
it matters little
very little love is not so bad
or very little life
what counts
is waiting on walls
I was born for this
I was born to hustle roses down the avenues of the dead.
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Comments
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Alone
Alone and solitary he was and that he accepted. He was "born for this". -
Brilliant
Thought provoking insight to life -
muy bien.
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From guest yacob Enoch (contact)
I like the question, "Very little love is not so bad or very little life what counts." Exactly!!! what counts? nothing or everything? It could all just be a matter of posture. body language. physical behavior -
From guest Joe Ramsey (contact)
This is the best description of sadness I've ever read--becoming these objects, and waiting on walls. -
Absolutely mindblowing.
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