futurebird's Diaryland Diary

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the month finds sleep

Who do we think we are!

Poets?

A few words in a series of tight paragraphs will not prove to anyone that you are in pain. Still, I think I have the right to try. To put down a few dozen words and hope to ring some stranger�s secret bells. If I ring one or two of yours, be kind and let me know. It�s what I live for.

the moth finds sleep

when the sun sets too early
into the stiff folds of winters cloak
I stumble on red, numb legs,
big, eyes sockets dumb to the path,
a lost moth without a lamp to love
beating her heavy, dusty wings
on the impossible glass.

My yellow blooded insect heart
is listening to the cold.
It whispers a song that grows slower
than the rhythm of sleep.

But 100 tiny black-clustered eyes long, each for the light.
they are reaching out with squeals to catch it
sparkling like coal powder, screaming with it�s colours.

The earth would be too kind
to shower manna on its poorest creatures.
Is there at least mercy? Some. Yes.
Rest all your wild struggles, tiny ones.

Winter is here.

The body, dry, dead paper,
folds, rustles, stops, falls, sleeps.

03:39:06 - 2000-12-24

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