blainebeckner
10-29-2010, 11:19 PM
Dew slides down the side my glass;
grass is always so damp in the morning.
Do you see why it's called? I do,
misspelled, but I see through.
I draw the shade to shut out the night,
the screech of tires and that 5 watt bulb
that casts shadows on my hearth.
This fire is brighter anyway.
Do you sea?
e 2 S back and forth
d i
i d
S e
How shifty is that sea of sees.
The great equalizer, just as soon to be a friend
then to bury a city with indifferent shovels –
A backfire cuts through the darkness, maybe something more,
I don't care,
This shade and cozy fire black out the night,
blots the decent of a perpetual fulcrum
before His chariot scorches the sky –
I laugh;
He oversleeps.
No worries. My crystal vase was shattered too,
I view the night through it.
The roses become dragons,
cars scream into banshees.
Iron and glass crunch like a sub 40 miles down,
a tin cup beneath the sledge,
a popped bag of Karo...
I slam the shutters,
then stoke the fire.
I catch a shadow from my eye
and glance in the mirror behind me.
“It's a shame that old oak fell,” I think,
and thrust more wood into the orange glow.
I rock in the warmth until I see
tears pouring from the early air;
the grass is always damp in the mourning.
grass is always so damp in the morning.
Do you see why it's called? I do,
misspelled, but I see through.
I draw the shade to shut out the night,
the screech of tires and that 5 watt bulb
that casts shadows on my hearth.
This fire is brighter anyway.
Do you sea?
e 2 S back and forth
d i
i d
S e
How shifty is that sea of sees.
The great equalizer, just as soon to be a friend
then to bury a city with indifferent shovels –
A backfire cuts through the darkness, maybe something more,
I don't care,
This shade and cozy fire black out the night,
blots the decent of a perpetual fulcrum
before His chariot scorches the sky –
I laugh;
He oversleeps.
No worries. My crystal vase was shattered too,
I view the night through it.
The roses become dragons,
cars scream into banshees.
Iron and glass crunch like a sub 40 miles down,
a tin cup beneath the sledge,
a popped bag of Karo...
I slam the shutters,
then stoke the fire.
I catch a shadow from my eye
and glance in the mirror behind me.
“It's a shame that old oak fell,” I think,
and thrust more wood into the orange glow.
I rock in the warmth until I see
tears pouring from the early air;
the grass is always damp in the mourning.