The river is cold, but the day is long; or so thought the girl in the green as she washed the shards of shattered glass of teacups, down by the stream. And the stains were all but forgotten on the porcelain once so white scrub 'till your fingers are bleeding and blood is a stain in the night.
The words are like so many so many needles over time, they burst the flesh and like needles, sew lies deep into her eardrums so sad, really. She'll never hear that the thread is the wrong colour.
They threaded my heart back together and strung it up in my chest after it rolled out the door, and I can hear them say - loopholed words. "Perhaps without the anesthesia?"
"Nothing is permanent in this wicked world - not even our troubles." ~ Charles Chaplin
Threads start to pool at my feet, Strings of her heart. I sew them back together, but stay they will not.
Tears fill the empty bowl, I hold under her head, And I tell her, "Not here, Mary, not here. Take your crying elsewhere."
I am the workingman, the inventor, the maker of the world's food and clothes. I am the audience that witnesses history. - Carl Sandburg, I am the People, the Mob
The little crib is trimmed with cracked velvet. And the little fists reach out of the darkness and they shake as if asking why? why? is my rattle made out of bones?
No, no, I don't fear the man in the black suit. I find his brimstone glare a comfort. His dapper ways enchant me. No, no, my love, don't shake. It does no good to tremble before him.
Vertigo, you devil. I told you I wanted none of your gut-wrenching favours Or your promises, fragile as the frayed rope that holds us together. Oh, you think I cannot see- that you've at last popped my eyes so much like the cherries in your neatly tailored hand. Don't be so sure, love. I've got your blue eyed boy yet.
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