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Poem Title: morning has wrung out her sleeves
Copy of Poem:
Spoiler! :
morning has wrung out her sleeves
and has settled on the clothesline of the sky
to dry, to watch all her worries as they become
clouds, whisked away in a whirlwind
of flying dervishes and dutchmen.
[[these play harnesses to the wind.]]
morning is calm. the trees lay their heads
against the concrete walls of the plaza;
the wind rushes past, and the trees kiss
concrete teeth. bells tinkle, and dew
falls, gently, from morning's drooping sleeves.
[[dewdrops play the sky’s mourning eyes.]]
the morning, and the trees, and the wind
are harnessed; i watch them, sleepless,
eyes hammocked and body tired, but mind
ringing, ringing, ringing.
the bells on the newspaper boy's bicycle
echo in my head, even as he
echoes, down this street
and into the next--
there are thoughts driving
cataclysms into the cleft in my skull
that has been worn deep by nights of rugged tiredness.
i wander palaces, and tombs, and places
where the wind passes me by. my lips press
against the cool, cold skin
of awareness, and awakening;
the smell of sharp citrus bites into my skin.
oh, this is how it feels
to be alive; this is how it aches.
but with my hair pulled taut over pillowsheets,
and eyes pinned to the ceiling, i feel
like a moth in a glass cylinder. i am
trapped, wings fluttering, wind
wandering; i see
and am not seen, by morning's first light.
i hear, and am not heard
by the sound of morning bells.
i feel, and am not felt
by trees grazing unfeeling skin.
i wander, and do not,
as morning slips on her cloak
and enters day;
[[night veils himself in dawn.]]
the glass cylinder is flooded
with the sights and sounds
of peace.
so good night, bells,
it is daylight,
and sleep has come for me.
and has settled on the clothesline of the sky
to dry, to watch all her worries as they become
clouds, whisked away in a whirlwind
of flying dervishes and dutchmen.
[[these play harnesses to the wind.]]
morning is calm. the trees lay their heads
against the concrete walls of the plaza;
the wind rushes past, and the trees kiss
concrete teeth. bells tinkle, and dew
falls, gently, from morning's drooping sleeves.
[[dewdrops play the sky’s mourning eyes.]]
the morning, and the trees, and the wind
are harnessed; i watch them, sleepless,
eyes hammocked and body tired, but mind
ringing, ringing, ringing.
the bells on the newspaper boy's bicycle
echo in my head, even as he
echoes, down this street
and into the next--
there are thoughts driving
cataclysms into the cleft in my skull
that has been worn deep by nights of rugged tiredness.
i wander palaces, and tombs, and places
where the wind passes me by. my lips press
against the cool, cold skin
of awareness, and awakening;
the smell of sharp citrus bites into my skin.
oh, this is how it feels
to be alive; this is how it aches.
but with my hair pulled taut over pillowsheets,
and eyes pinned to the ceiling, i feel
like a moth in a glass cylinder. i am
trapped, wings fluttering, wind
wandering; i see
and am not seen, by morning's first light.
i hear, and am not heard
by the sound of morning bells.
i feel, and am not felt
by trees grazing unfeeling skin.
i wander, and do not,
as morning slips on her cloak
and enters day;
[[night veils himself in dawn.]]
the glass cylinder is flooded
with the sights and sounds
of peace.
so good night, bells,
it is daylight,
and sleep has come for me.
Gender:
Points: 27
Reviews: 396