At the center of the world there is a statue of a boy.
He is standing near a well with a bucket bare and dry.
I went and looked him in the eye and he turned me into sand.
This clumsy form that I despise it scattered easy in his hand.
And came to rest upon a beach,
with a million others there.
We sat and waited for the sea to stretch out,
so that we could disappear into the endlessness of blue,
into the horror of the truth.
You see, we are far less than we knew.
Yeah, we are far less than we knew,
but we knew what we could taste.
Girls found honey to drench our hands.
Men cut marble to mark our graves.
Said we’ll need something to remind us of
all the sweetness that has passed through us.
(fresh sangria and lemon tea).
The priests dressed children for a choir,
(white-robed small voices praise Him)
but found no joy in what was sung.
The funeral had begun.
In the middle of the day,
when you drive home to your place from that job that makes you sleep
back to the thoughts that keep you awake long after
night has come to claim any light that still remains
in the corner of the frame that you put around his face.
Two pills just weren’t enough.
The alarm clock is going off,
but you are not waking up.
This isn’t happening, happening, happening, happening, happening. It is.
 xX_iEMOJay-rawrz · Sat Dec 20, 2008 @ 06:10pm · 0 Comments |
