The Edge Of A World
Lucidly I wondered how he felt, growing old. A silhouette of regrets digging
at his stormy eyes, which seem to melt clonazepam blue as the sky. I could
imagine him in my favorite western playing the bad good guy. I think about
his lips; A kiss broken like sunshine onto my body. Bewildered it strands into
my skin. Inside of this American-heartland, the shape of washed sunsets
tangerine grow into the scintilla sands. We are like wild winds meeting east
to west, if only for one final day that could remain. Those dreams that empty
at the edge of the world, are the edges of his dead-lit heart and eyes. For the
verisimilitude of your charm and your hands a 47 time-less driver, a midnight
writer; Derived by passions for creation. Caught in a glimpse of winter aching
for a sempiternal spring; Well if I was his song I wonder what could go wrong.
On my knees wishing, a strange religion. As I watch movies like clouds, and all
the music turns colors I see in my head riding right through me. I would pretend
he knew me well. Is that not the most sorrow a love could lend. And I say it will
be gone tomorrow; This feeling of love, this growing of sorrow. Distantly
overlapping desires of friction, such silence filled with un-bearable desire.
A desert I am stranded by yearning for water.
By: Vanessa Matic
