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Counting Days

by Sabine


Counting Days

She’s walking away
Down the street,
No cars go by,
How early is the morning?
There are doves behind her,
Disguised in grey,
When she turns to look
She’ll see them fly away.
Who is this stranger
In her familiar face?

Come,
Take my hand,
Climb the stairs
Off the street,
The air is safe to tread
Or do you find,
When waking up,
That you’ve been standing still?

When did this dream begin?

There’s a man waiting at a café,
He’s waiting just for me,
Who knows if he’d still be waiting
If the ending wasn’t near.
I knew with heavy certainty
He won’t forgive me one more disappointment
Even though the sky’s ripped open.
Why can’t I get there faster?
Waiting on an escalator I see him walk away,
He’s only left an empty cup and change to pay the bill.
And me,
I am left behind.

There was always an air of melancholy
Clinging to her edges,
Like crystallized tears and sea-foam
Or a thousand tiny, flawed diamonds.
And the way she appeared under a street lamp
On that foggy, foggy night,
With her lips closed around secrets
And her eyes fixed so steady and pure,
Sometimes you think she’s not of this world.
“Are you a ghost,” you ask
She laughs
You don’t,
She never answers.

Now there are holes where the evening sky’s worn through,
The weft fraying into patches of bright nebulae,
Drifts of tree tops from other worlds float by,
Reality has been warped,
Like metal in extreme heat
And time is more like honey than water,
Running faster when warmed.
We’ve been talking and we’ve been talking –
I never knew we could say so many things –
About that moment with the light from the window on your hand
When it was real and I ran,
About bitter laughter and savory time,
About that first, that only night of poetry,
About all those pretty days with the sun and rain,
About all the years of tumble and tumult
Where we’ve been all and nothing and everything in between.
We’ve been talking about the history of the world.

There are balls of white like flame pouring down the sky
Like tears
Like destruction,
Like reincarnation and fireworks
And the sky looks so blue against all that bright,
The falling of all stars born.
In the last moment before the last moment
We lean together
Whispering love,
Regret,
Hope.

This is where the dream ends.

She’s standing on the sidewalk,
Right beside you,
Half belonging to starlight.

*some dreams you whish you'd nevr had once you wake up, so you write poetry about it. definitions: Weft- weaving term, as in warp and weft, look it up, Nebulae- nebula in plural form, this is not a typo. I'm not sure if I'm putting this poem in the right section, tell if I got it wrong.


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48 Reviews


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Fri Feb 11, 2005 1:31 am
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Myriadne says...



It starts of well but looses its threads as it goes on, I think you need to tighten your style and focus the poem more.




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Thu Feb 10, 2005 4:22 am
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Sabine says...



This is based mostly on an actual dream i had, which had a plot line but didn't really make sense. the subconscious and dreaming mind does not follow the laws of logic and physics that the waking mind knows. So this probably doesn't make any more sense to me than it does to you.

And i avoid Britney Spears like the plague, so i don't know her lyrics. Sorry if i reminded you.




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Wed Feb 09, 2005 1:49 pm
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Chevy wrote a review...



Come,
Take my hand,

AGGHHH!!! Reminded me of Britney Spear's 'Everytime!' :shock:
Anyway, I'll have to agree with Bobo--even though I did like this part:
There’s a man waiting at a café,
He’s waiting just for me,
Who knows if he’d still be waiting
If the ending wasn’t near.
I knew with heavy certainty
He won’t forgive me one more disappointment
Even though the sky’s ripped open.
Why can’t I get there faster?
Waiting on an escalator I see him walk away,
He’s only left an empty cup and change to pay the bill.
And me,
I am left behind.

The rest was sort of difficult to understand, but I still liked it.




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Wed Feb 09, 2005 3:40 am
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Bobo says...



I like how it's a stream-of-consciousness thing, but I couldn't understand it very well. I like the feeling it protrays, though. Very good.





The roots of education are bitter, but the fruit is sweet.
— Aristotle