Saturday, March 19, 2011

PUSH PULL

A low voiced
Hushed
Shushed
Wishing, whispered
Whipping
Wind pushed-pulled complaint

It began to scream along my skin
That I wouldn't take it
Or it wouldn't take me
Our biologies didn't match
We were propelled
And I was supposed to stay away

Painter's dotted art
Swept itself across the sky
My back met with a pink burning sun
My eyes found a lace-worked moon
As it floated in a still-blue dome of atmosphere

His grey-faced features
Took a tilted look at me
Said:
"And why are you here?"

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