our place in life is cement.
limp handshakes and
plaster painted sentiment,
the smiles show the cracks
of a stripped machine.
these worn hands,
feeling severed and wrong,
used to hang the moon...
and in its light i saw a vision,
high heeled shoes in hand,
floating across asphalt
placed gently across the other side.
burned in memory,
it was as if
this was the last thing
these eyes
ever
saw,
or ever wanted
to
see.
NB @ 2:05 PM
3 Comments:
Amazing imagery. This is beautiful!
thank you kindly. tell a friend;)
i love how oftentimes your titles give new meaning to the poem. makes me think in a new way. i like this about your work.
(a girl's got to take her shoes off to really dance.)
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