"The desert bears only a scathing sun, and nothing more."
"What about mirages?"

Tuesday, November 9, 2010

My Heart Is Not A Bird.

Why is a heart
to winged, fickle
crusaders of the sky?

My heart rarely flutters
(but you make it so),
nor does it fly into my throat
(but you make it so),
nor do wings sprout
from the tissue.

my heart is
a flower
that buds
and blossoms
and flourishes in the spring
and shrivels
in the winter.

- - -

Not sure about this one. I'm just playing around with new things, trying to make my brain pump its arms and breath hard.

1 comment:

  1. I like this one. It's kind of rusty. But says alot. Like an old bicycle, maybe not fancy, but comfortable and gets you where you need to go.


"Write with our backs to the wind and our faces to the hard, bleaching sun."