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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Poetry  |  House: Booksie Classic
She sees ghosts of yesterday's rain illuminated in the first light, she is waiting for the sky to catch fire.

Submitted: June 08, 2009

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Submitted: June 08, 2009



Oak trees casted fingers upon wet earth,
and silvery bones and tearing wings gathered beneath my feet,
as hair intertwined in rosebush vines,
carrying yesterday's weight of rain.
I paid for you, with worms spinning silk and spiderwebs,
the scent of lavender and deadened leaves filling the air.
Your taste is my own, and I eat you with silken lips and crackled teeth,
speckled red, speckled blue,
and I spin you to gold.

Her trembling slumbering heart,
creates shivers on the surface of her skin:
goosebumps, she says.
She has pins in her legs and pins in her eyes,
I push them in deeper,
tiptoes across weathered lands,
and she sighs,
a soft breeze, delicate and subtle.
Her breaths are silver chimes amidst tomorrow's wintersong,
shifing through homes of nested birds:
leaves and brown.

Skin split and cracked scabs,
the harsh air with its relentless bite -
spiralling into sorrow,
absent as veiled eyes,
dancing, dancing inside.
Slurred words from dreamless slumber,
but only just.

Small wrists, flecked with dust,
hiding wire, copper, electric blue and green,
pulsing, only pulsing.
Wildflowers in goldenrod skies,
miles and miles on breathless planes,
seven moons across autumn scenes -
waiting for the sky to catch fire.

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