scatteroflight
Refugee
I.
I only follow now
she has always been ahead of me
burning for the black water of her hair
as I always have
II.
Hawthorn will be my end
it will be
the sweetness of the blossoms
I will be alive without knowing it
III.
White flowers
soft as her breasts
The skin of my hands was always the bark of a hawthorn tree
rough and scarred
now at the point of joining
the tree is taking me
IV.
I see through her golden eyes
as she watches me with the bright indifference of a falcon
I see my face twisting, withering
paling to the colour of the flowers
And the book is above me
in her lucent hands
virgin pages
soon to hold my life
as she starts to write
V.
I remember the aching quiet
with only the scratching of the quill
writing me away into the dark
[This message has been edited by scatteroflight (edited 06-08-2001).]
[This message has been edited by scatteroflight (edited 06-09-2001).]
I only follow now
she has always been ahead of me
burning for the black water of her hair
as I always have
II.
Hawthorn will be my end
it will be
the sweetness of the blossoms
I will be alive without knowing it
III.
White flowers
soft as her breasts
The skin of my hands was always the bark of a hawthorn tree
rough and scarred
now at the point of joining
the tree is taking me
IV.
I see through her golden eyes
as she watches me with the bright indifference of a falcon
I see my face twisting, withering
paling to the colour of the flowers
And the book is above me
in her lucent hands
virgin pages
soon to hold my life
as she starts to write
V.
I remember the aching quiet
with only the scratching of the quill
writing me away into the dark
[This message has been edited by scatteroflight (edited 06-08-2001).]
[This message has been edited by scatteroflight (edited 06-09-2001).]