Monday, June 28, 2010

For a Philosopher

My sister told me I'm going mushy.
She said,
The way I talked,
Sounded,
As if honey dripped from my lips
And violins played in my ears
And roses tinted the world
Making it not only look beautiful
But smell pretty too.

But let me assure you,
My lips are still a practical undrippy.
The soundtrack of my waking and sleeping
Is just the sound of my own breathing.
And no matter how hard I try to see the world in pink hues
The closest I get is a sorry state of grey.
The city summer stink has not left my nostrils.

And yet,
Truth stumbles from my lips no longer held back.
The sound of my steady breath is interrupted by catches and quivers
Far more often then it once was.
Seeing the world holds the mystery of seeing probable stars,
Dripping with understanding and lack thereof.
And at night,
When the window is open,
And the still, soft, air slowly comes and goes
(comes and goes)
The harsh city breath
Is replaced by a cooler
And more pleasant air.

1 comment:

  1. First stanza is magic. The last stanza has hope.

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