her
life never had a plot
on the surface
undirected, like poetry in her sleep
it was like the autumn wind caught in a Polaroid frame.
misplaced
vagrant?
the strings let her down everytime her fingers looked
for an answer instead of resonance even her
thickest paintbrush failed to
help it with a stroke of direction
but when she whispered to the
night, her fevered cries in the dry voice full
of desperation it told her in hushed tones ..
..its just a purple dream you need to weave
just
a
p
u
r
p
l
e
who cares to write the screenplay?
1 comment:
And so it goes,like the whispering gale,
threading through it's course,
a flickering tale.
Rage and silence,all in song,
Sketched hastily,
with images long.
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