Monday, March 28, 2011

A dull thurr

I wrote this about six months back, and its making a lot of sense again.

puttin down the pen
dealing in fireflies
burned my hands.
a three dimensional box of stripes non-diagonal
walking through
saw the dots it all was made of
round and round
they went.
got off the globe
barely slipped
into a chamber so low
knotted my spine.
ask i,
how the land inspires music so delicious.
ask i,
why touch becomes a need.
ask i,
why i stop to look behind and gather it all in my eyes.
should i walk a straight line,
would i be fulfilled?
consumed?
made into a bright light?
would i burn?
or would i smoulder into half burnt ash?
often my straight line falls into a deep trench
reaching low becomes pleasure
before i plateau into a dull thurr.

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