Nothing, she said, could be further from the truth.
The orange of the sunset owes you nothing
despite your claim to fresh air and heartache.
Once when you dreamt of a glorious future
the pointed hands seemed frozen in time,
starkly arced and black on a face gone pale
in anticipation of things to arise and come.
The ticking resumed but there was no reward,
only the rhythmic reminder of time passing
and the sinking sense that growth had ceased.
Nothing, she said, could be further from the truth.
Thursday, November 6, 2014
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Beautiful. Really so. How she opens her curtains and then draws them closed.
ReplyDelete'the pointed hands seemed frozen in time'
Sometimes you just read something and it stays with you, the image; the feel of such. At the same moment, you know you will be called back to be enveloped in such words.
I want to echo SarahA's comment. Beautiful. You do have a way with image. :)
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