Friday 1 June 2012

She exists in the non existent.


She looked through the window
The rusted pane, the tainted glass
She sipped and licked her lip
Sipped some more
Wine wasn’t enough that night
Looking for a face amongst the stars
Another in the patterns the clouds make
Giving an ear to the silences of the night
She wriggled her fingers through the strand of hair
That carelessly danced to the rhythm of the wind
Her fragile hands slid the glass away
With laden eyes she kept sorting,
That strand of hair
Those sloppy clouds
The mean stars

In the spring outside she couldn’t reconcile
The winter inside her didn’t die
The delightful symphonies that whore burnt away
The whore named Time
Left over are,
Torched spirits
Unlit reminiscenses
Empty wine bottles
Brimmed blood-shot eyes
A world that ceased to exist
A self existence denied
An unfinished story
A finished life.