Sea breezeBehind the mill,In the old townshe lay on a bed of ebon flowersfelt the sun go downThe darkness enfolded around hershe was watching a star,staring into the inked cloththat constituted a skyand in the first mornings lightcovered in dewshe recalled how it had fled out of sight.The sunlight stroked her face,a sea breeze combed her restless hairbehind the mill they kissed,the moment lost to carehis hand flickedthrough his lovers locksand time slipped outlike sand====================================================
The noose"The best time to create a good environment for a child is one hundred years before they are born." - Unknown"I wish he'd hurry up and die."she said, turning back to her friendslaughing, with the old man aheadmerely passing, unable to moveany faster, for want or for try.Others who were there heard, and smirkedtook the conversation home"I hope I never live that long."they adamantly pronounce, and their little ones,who heard it aloud, carry it back to school.Then it spreads.They ridicule, they pitybut with every film, every one night standevery mass collection, every flirtationevery recollection, every glance forwards they lose a measure of sliding sands. The thing about time is thatit comes in all sizes, all wrappers and sizessteady growth coupled with steady decaywhich is not slowed, halted, or delayedbut will find us wherever we are.So in sixty years the woman walkswhere the girl had called, silver haired,skin thin like paper, prete
Echo IndiaEcho IndiaThere is difference between the warmth of placeand the fumbled machinations of skin pressing skin.It ends in a frenzy. Indeed, there is a time for floatingand for plunging into the sea. But many are lost, many eyes cannot see.With every subsequent collision, greater anesthesiaspreads, numb from repetition. This is a poor wisdom.The enlightenment of a moth, that light bulb is not the sunLove is not something, not someone.Something that sticks in sides, taunts, and slidesso gently, slips into the space between soul and face,and in this shrine, in this place, before its altardeceived, replaced.I think love is a little godLike a little puppy, to which everyone pointsand coo's and petsOh, isn't he sweet?Till it becomes aged, and then is leftin a state of simple maintenance,walked, fed, petted.Or cast out to the streets.