He who can no longer pause to wonder and stand rapt in awe, is as good as dead; his eyes are closed.
--Albert Einstein --

Tuesday, March 3, 2009

Strange Photographs

I am only aware that my feet are cold
bit by bit as I make my way bit by bit
shuffling toward the blur reaching back
hand me my prescription and urge me on

I understand what she says better than her
so why can't I fix me - this broken tool
Hammering the future with past nails
I'm losing what I was in the white noise

And as the snow lays in my dreams
God lays the white quilt over all we've done
but in my wake the field is parched
nose to the glass I forgot the smell of rain

My feet are so cold in this icy grass
strange breezes whip and wail and tease
into my tender ear alle alle auch sien frie
all I ever wanted is to fall down and cry

I realize the pictures I've taken aren't mine
The people I've been are only ghosts
my spirit watches me from somewhere else
and the mist in the laurels have yet to decide

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