this is wind in the willows.
this is not bravery,
i am trying to form a clear picture in my misty head;
truth over mystery.
a caravan next to the sea
with no cyclones in sight.
my ear listens to my pillow at night
and i am giving it my best shot
to dream superfluous dreams.
i hear the drawl of idiot-tongue
and cactus words from my memory.
my hands carve stone steps that lead up to your mouth
as you rest on the riverboat, amongst the willows.
those oars are not ornaments, you know.
1 comment:
i think i want to get the rain tattoo'd on me.
permisson, bet? can i maybe get a bigger copy?
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