the stars, the sea, and sleep.

Saturday, May 15, 2010

Past Promises

There is the smell of red metallic on my right hand;
It was pressed up against the ribs of a monstrous shell,
Pushing and holding back its hollow frame.
Apply pressure to the tongue before I sink all these words,
Shipped off in stiff drinks, soft piano and fading sirens.
Mix over these layers with the static of silence
And the echo of thoughts off of themed cloudy glass.
I never said it any louder, what was etched into your arms
That had made its way from the cutting room floor,
Countless shutters from your countless shudders.
I'm sorry I couldn't make it count,
Shooting stars that I kept in silence.
We blew them all at once on a plastic cake with real flowers
To say I'm just getting too old.
This time I burned my hands with the wax from dandelions
And now I'm getting sick from all the death I've been defying.

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