Monday, May 10, 2010

Creek.


























In the box, decorated wood grain and sixties light, The Nightingale and The Dream sing to us and we sink in whiskey bliss. An under cover interest in all these secrets. Worlds and words and shadows and a beautiful outpouring of Them and Us. Strangers. Friends. I shadow away when I feel the cracks appear. The best impressions a faint smoke and fragrance. And all of that? It don't matter so much anymore. When late night those red riled rhythms course and curse. Ribbons in the night, curling, twirling, swirling in time to a luscious comedy. It's like we know now.  That all the doors are weird, not just one. That every, any, outcome is inevitable.

Autumn wraps us in her arms.
And patterns repeat under the most glorious sky 
as oh, those eyes...
I could sail those waters
out and over
over the edge of Yesterday,

Anyway.

I just keep looking forward.

It's far more lovely than looking back.

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