Not a word
Glass come to me
I have my hands on the table
Palm face down, looking at the colors of my fingers
And jump tear jump tear
Bounce, and cold pillows
Soft sleep with the ceiling fan wobbling on exposed wires that are the only thing left holding it to the ceiling
And I move like a ghost through the halls
And dance laying down
With ghosts on either side of me
Arms crossed across their bodies
Holding staffs and we all sleep like Egyptians
The ghosts and I
I turn and they turn
And I count the minutes till the dawn arrives
And I watch the angels knowing I am not an angel
And I dance lying down not moving
|
|
Bookmark/Search this post with:
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
