|
grotesque |
(parisian poem # 9)
Day after day
the wind teases
the pinions of wings
arched to bear you
over the horizon,
but you stay fastened
to the apex
of a temple
you will never enter.
Is your laugh
the rainwater
gushing out
your gaping maw
through old, broken teeth
bared to frighten,
yet have never
tasted flesh?
You are crouched,
muscles attuned
to spring
off a ledge…
but
you cannot run,
leap, and
soar through spaces
reserved for
these fragile mortals
and morals
you are indentured to.
If you could move anywhere
but down through Time…
where would you go?
copyright 2004
Marie
Lecrivain |
