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Deleted member 43031
This ax divides the night
awake - when the whirl begins far too early
on spin cycle
oh the trains that cry at 3 AM
Stop in the dark street, hearing with each cell...
ahh the cry of a train
I sleep in a mattress of willow branches and torn arrows
my ancestors gather in silence
see me wrestle with the dreams, the unfinished places
tree weaves
painted ponies I once tore across the plains upon
If I could sob, If I could stop you form leaving....
because I am good and kind, I cannot paint you in feathers of crawl
nor hold on tight to the water of your goodbyes
they flow through my hands.
The others who - the other who monstrified my world
tearing safety from a curtained wonderland I have created
no you won't you falling bastard
each cut that scars me, each slow scar forming while I contract so hard
muscles shake - wild ponies break free crying stomping storming snorting raging
We hear the thunder, crawl from bufallo hides, they are here, the buffalo -
a hunt ensues, the tribe is one. We know each our jobs, one we are one.
This was centuries ago. All the dried rivers and
into a painted face I fall, because a trickster knows - be still as the movement calls to echo
a painted pony, later years - a train cries.
Even deeper, I finally fall through the cracks to curl into the rivers
that have waited far too long to
flow.
awake - when the whirl begins far too early
on spin cycle
oh the trains that cry at 3 AM
Stop in the dark street, hearing with each cell...
ahh the cry of a train
I sleep in a mattress of willow branches and torn arrows
my ancestors gather in silence
see me wrestle with the dreams, the unfinished places
tree weaves
painted ponies I once tore across the plains upon
If I could sob, If I could stop you form leaving....
because I am good and kind, I cannot paint you in feathers of crawl
nor hold on tight to the water of your goodbyes
they flow through my hands.
The others who - the other who monstrified my world
tearing safety from a curtained wonderland I have created
no you won't you falling bastard
each cut that scars me, each slow scar forming while I contract so hard
muscles shake - wild ponies break free crying stomping storming snorting raging
We hear the thunder, crawl from bufallo hides, they are here, the buffalo -
a hunt ensues, the tribe is one. We know each our jobs, one we are one.
This was centuries ago. All the dried rivers and
into a painted face I fall, because a trickster knows - be still as the movement calls to echo
a painted pony, later years - a train cries.
Even deeper, I finally fall through the cracks to curl into the rivers
that have waited far too long to
flow.
