It is strange, and sad, to me how often these days people interrupt each other and talk over one another. I would agree that a picture is worth a thousand words, but a word can also have a thousand meanings itself, and if you value the words you speak as having meaning you would listen to the words of others with equal intent to the ones you speak.
This Doesn’t make sense.
It never did though.
Just roll with the punches
The kicks and the blows
Following hunches I…
Gave up long ago
Not to say they don’t remain
With spite and vengeance
I burn further for action
and cool for the flow.
I feel it come crashing
I beg for it though
But it never happens Tremain
and I simmer in the cold.
A picture is worth a thousand words
and those words worth a thousand more
for no two person’s interpretation
could be the same as the one before
I’m waiting for the kiss you promised me.
There’s something cold in your lips the winter heat
A ridiculous farce is love indeed
Wit lust a trohpaea a priori
Delusions so fine intentions divine
Complicate in sooth make sweet what is brine
Romance is a method to get you supine
no further intention no goals of transcendence
Just stock exchange with an eloquent cadence
The delicate dance of the praying mantis.
It’s a sickening space. It gives me the shivers. A cringing ecstasy. The quiet hum of the building; The cold white lights.
He walks past me from where she is sitting to throw away the chinese take-out they were eating. She floats along untouched in life, diligent and blissfully oblivious to it’s potential roughness. The innocence of a small child never to be marred. At least not for a good many years still.
I feel it is a victory that we held eachother so close, for a time, yet let go nearly unscathed. She hops around flirtatiously in front of her current puppy-love character holding his hand. Lucky girl. She glances across this open space at me.
I have my hat pulled low over my face, trying, trying to study; Be inconspicuous so we can both keep going past each other, as if we never met in this life.
I look back up and she is gone. To her life has no gradation. All of it and everything it contains is either good or bad. Never both.
And to her I am bad…
Or maybe I am the one exception; The enigma in her mind which she couldn’t place…
Not a chance.
Maybe I should have tried harder. No, maybe I should not have given up so easily. Maybe I should have been more patient.
That kiss was just so empty.
Sarai sat on the cushioned seats of the church pew hunched over in a rather meek looking position. Upon first glance one might assume that she is praying, and maybe she was for surely she was looking for help, and they say God hears all thoughts. So maybe she is praying; Though not consciously.
She sits there arms out, resting palms facing the ceiling of the sanctuary with her dark hair partially eclipsing her face. Her hair was thick and she had large eyes, and it made her look like a character from a Japanese cartoon. This, she thought, made it hard for people to take her seriously, which is why she tries to stand up as straight as possible at all times, though she often fails at doing so because of how tired she is, and stays, most of the time. Making her posture somewhat varying; Rapidly changing from very erect to bent almost double from one moment to the next, if you forgive the slight exaggeration.
An older man, probably a deacon of the church, or even the pastor (she assumed from the faint smile his face seemed to retain at all times during the following conversation) came up and gently put his hand on her shoulder, startling her, for her brassy eyes were closed. “I’m sorry to wake you.” said the godly man, even though they knew she wasn’t asleep, “Oh, its fine.” She replied quietly, all but incoherently. “I was just wondering if you needed anything, possibly someone to pray with?” Looking at the man now more closely she realized he wasn’t quite as old as she thought he was. “Oh,” she said with a slight laugh to her palms which were now looking up at her from her lap. “No thanks, I was just resting for a bit.” She said as she rose to start leaving. “Are you sure?” the man said, “You look weary.” She stopped looking quizzically at him, “Weary? You must read the bible quite often.” Her eyes laughed to neither her palms nor the man’s eyes. “But no.” she said. “Being tired is hardly something to pray about anyways, all I’d have to do is go to sleep.” her eyes laughing again to no-one in particular. “No” the man said, “weary I think, means something entirely different than tired. Weary is more of a..” He falters; looking at his palms for reassurance. “.. an emotional sort of tired.. If that makes sense.” She turns to him now with a small smile “Yes, it does make sense.” They hold a gaze for a few moments, his cold eyes making hers look all the more conflagrant.
It would make a rather beautiful picture, these two sets of contrasting eyes looking into one another’s, and their exiguous and forethoughtful smiles, but she is now in the street, in the crisp pink morning air of the moon-set, and he, now warming the same seat in which her body heat still lingers, is saying a prayer for the girl with the weary eyes of fire.
Then ten foot lines, you might say, endeavor only vainly to put the past away
head of one, foot of the other, stand closer than friends and farther than lovers
strands so divine colored black, blond, and wine blow in the wind and let a moment supine
wish smoke would remain still on one same vein, its languorous creep, its musical stain
Peace keep from me thy bland consistency
and be fucked thee, be fucked, peace you have no place in me, but surely I one in thee
no place in life but you will be thereafter a realm of black and alabaster
until that time i embrace disaster