I'm not sure what this is... a little strange, but please read anyway. :D
Where did you disappear to?
The fleeting fantasy that for a moment I could put down in words,
Is now back to the fourth primary colour
And shapes made of neither straight lines nor curves.
This fourth dimension eludes me again.
It makes a little sense,
But only in the wisps of whimsy.
I can hear it in the voice my head, not the one I tell to speak
But that one that stands back a watches and sniggers and whispers.
And I can't hear it because I speak to loudly.
And can't seem to shut up.
There's a hint to it in music.
The sort that tears at your heart and makes you scream.
So far away from my fingers,
Short cigarette stubs that burn and will one day be crushed under your heels.
For a moment I could do it.
I don't know who, but someone gave me a box to stand on.
But they whisked it away before I could climb over the wall
And play in the rainbow prison contained in the prism.
Priceless.
Perfection.
Pandora.
This evasive invasion is just another grasp,
At the wind.
I know.
It doesn't make much sense,
To you.
It makes a little for me,
But little less also.
Look above.
Not up to the sky, not towards north nor east nor west nor south.
Okay, maybe south.
But just there I had a grab, and I held the hand of hope,
For 38 lines.
It's gone now.
Never mind.
Perhaps another day.
Or in another place or time.
Or dimension.
The fourth maybe?
Poetry by Tal¿a
Read 1272 times
Written on 2006-12-22 at 07:42
Tags Society Poetry Philosophy
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The Fourth
Where did it go?Where did you disappear to?
The fleeting fantasy that for a moment I could put down in words,
Is now back to the fourth primary colour
And shapes made of neither straight lines nor curves.
This fourth dimension eludes me again.
It makes a little sense,
But only in the wisps of whimsy.
I can hear it in the voice my head, not the one I tell to speak
But that one that stands back a watches and sniggers and whispers.
And I can't hear it because I speak to loudly.
And can't seem to shut up.
There's a hint to it in music.
The sort that tears at your heart and makes you scream.
So far away from my fingers,
Short cigarette stubs that burn and will one day be crushed under your heels.
For a moment I could do it.
I don't know who, but someone gave me a box to stand on.
But they whisked it away before I could climb over the wall
And play in the rainbow prison contained in the prism.
Priceless.
Perfection.
Pandora.
This evasive invasion is just another grasp,
At the wind.
I know.
It doesn't make much sense,
To you.
It makes a little for me,
But little less also.
Look above.
Not up to the sky, not towards north nor east nor west nor south.
Okay, maybe south.
But just there I had a grab, and I held the hand of hope,
For 38 lines.
It's gone now.
Never mind.
Perhaps another day.
Or in another place or time.
Or dimension.
The fourth maybe?
Poetry by Tal¿a
Read 1272 times
Written on 2006-12-22 at 07:42
Tags Society Poetry Philosophy
Save as a bookmark (requires login) Write a comment (requires login) Send as email (requires login) Print text
