Monday, December 19, 2011

Not without a Hint anymore...

You once said, we would run away. We would live in a cottage of straw and wood, near the river of fishes and sunsets.You would fish all day, and come back by nightfall.We would eat simple food and then... you would play your guitar and we would sing our songs...till tired,we would fall asleep.What happened to that dream...What happens to all those dreams...

It's a crying  headache...
A running wreckage
Far from the scene of crime
And illusions,
A fulsome cremation
Of an undead soul...
Clinging to an incomplete dream about Life.
I have come, a long way
Past the postcard yellow-flecked fields,
That moves when the shadow befalls
Like a creature aroused.
There,look,trembling little calf runs,
Anxiously begotten, for its mama.
I have also run,
Through the distorted rails,
The muted wails
Of a winter sun.
Where the mechanical ticking of uncertain dreams
Do end,
And an ancient one begins,
Where life has ceased to end or begin,
Where a crying headache is a disease.

Where we once spoke of running away to.....

There they weave a lonely sweater,
For the faithless stranger of the suburbs...
There they smile,
A token of recognition,
For the hint they would not let slip by...

Let's run away,
The world screams,
Let us all run away...

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