Wednesday, 26 May 2010

POEM : The Varying Sounds of Grass

The moment has passed. like a lifetime of crumbling ruin,
gravity succeeds in its will to illuminate.

A building with no walls.

The grass remains,
dry and brittle,
the more I pick, the further away from the door I become.
Does grass even have a door? Does grammar intentionally whore reality?
A misnomer.
A baboon with the face of a doctor, the instruments of a cloud,
and rain infinitely at it's disposal.
Little money spider, why is the ground so dry and relinquished of handles?
I can't seem to go anywhere.
The thoughts of clouds are as insignificant as the empty paradigms of mud.
The wind is the reconciliation of belligerent humidity,
with the modest handshake of perspiration.

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