Lykren
08-20-2014, 09:53 PM
Less inward-bound than backwards,
the forward never shows.
Ahead through a field full
of grown things the sun drops.
Underlying beat, the clouds roost
like clover in long furrows.
A liquor grazes my sense
until bruised like old apples.
So falling down going tumbling
the landing that quiet, that slow.
Wrists flared out. Face smudged,
ready to look, ready to feel.
Noise escapes the ground
a digital snow. To be buried in white.
the forward never shows.
Ahead through a field full
of grown things the sun drops.
Underlying beat, the clouds roost
like clover in long furrows.
A liquor grazes my sense
until bruised like old apples.
So falling down going tumbling
the landing that quiet, that slow.
Wrists flared out. Face smudged,
ready to look, ready to feel.
Noise escapes the ground
a digital snow. To be buried in white.