The pen is poised, impatient for inspiration to strike.

Sunday, December 27, 2009

. Black Cats and Oranges.

Twisting through the midnight streets, we meander,
Touching any hope floating by.
The shadow of a tree makes me
pause. My eyes lean in and when they wrap themselves
around the little sunset globes, I cry.
I hate oranges.
Look, there are plastic stars resting on all the fences;
I wrestle them.
I lose and I sigh.

Black cats yowl, the yellow, hollow
O's of their eyes pulling me into the darkness.
I take a step back.

I'm on the outside now. I can taste it.
I'm walking alone, a single solider,
leading but not the leader,
but it's alright.

No comments:

Post a Comment

The Library

Le Petit Biographie

My photo
I laugh, I live, I think, I write (not necessarily in that order)... padam, padam indeed, Ms. Piaf. This poetry is almost always spontaneous and almost rarely edited.