Jul 23, 2010

rain pricks

the time before I felt rain. Sitting out on the deck, picture show lightning+thunder. I wonder whether it'll ever run down the sky long enough to reach me. I feel too much. I get lost in the details and forget to see the gray. clouds over my head heavy but I forget, don't see. Rain pricks my wrists and sleeve. I'm not noticing right now. Though I know I'm getting there.

I can only hear how my blood moves but I'm screaming. My scream sounds like when a computer overheats. Not like it should and I look down at my chest and scream at its emptiness. Where's the breaking glass? When did it become just a cage? It used to be a city. boots bricks fists stones sticks fly to the ground with no glass to catch their fall. They settle heavy at the bottom of my cage, leaving only echoes of what I expected to hear when I flung them.

Their echoes form the ground. clay. a body. a mountain. a tree. These I'm left with and these I can't cage. But boots brick fists stones sticks I can't leave.

Rain pricks my wrists and sleeve.
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