That timeDear toes, remember that time,
when everything went black,
but you were the only ones happy as always,
for you could twirl around in ice cold water for hours? -
You couldn't have known that the room was empty,
and that someone's father was hanging on top of you,
cursing that you dare to glide on his death crest,
You couldn't have felt the baggage crawling
down my armpits in the shape of icy sweat,
down the side, down the back,
straight to the imaginary earth,
landing on pins and needles, bleeding from 73 holes,
not noticing that the window was open,
and that some old widow might feel the pain, fall on her head,
crack the rusty skull open, so that she could murmur
'oh child!' and close down the chapter.
The name of the spiteful black tear keeps escaping the tongue,
I wish I could remember and warn the others,
But none would listen anyhow..
Why couldn't the bastards follow through,
That damn wretched weakness of reality!
Scared to make someone else pay for the coffin.
If time was reversible, I'd slap him on the head
and make him jump in – head first;
Well toes, we went a long road:
travelled over bricks that could swim on water,
met swine's who were literate, but unable to get sunburns;
we went a long road, dearest:
pushing branches aside as feathers,
while cutting arms with thorns – being at it's merriest,
when smelling needles and wood.
Little wooden houses, next to the waterfall
where someone should have died in, but didn't.
'Logical explanations, the answers to serious why's -
Where are you?'
Wondering the streets and the back docks,
shouting their name out loud.
But the only scream back is the echo of madness,
That's the moment when the caring for life stops.
Remember that time, when days were filled up
With crawling on top of the cemetery mountain?
Collecting all the red flowers in the area and
Being the only child without fear, laying on graves
and whispering fairytales to the wind -
the only who ever listened.
Drinking from dirty fountains and making little queens
form the weed growing around the statues.
Well dreamer's infant – isn't it time to quit believing
that royalty - can spring forth from dust?
Haven't we went far enough?
Certainly did more than a lifetime of years could carry
And sometimes, that is more than sufficient..
Poetry by FrancescaLuca
Read 618 times
Written on 2007-05-27 at 12:48
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