Sunday, January 07, 2007
for my low and your high
dearest child, where do you plan to fall down? the weird self is tapping her foot impatiently.
yellow cloudy day, with a streak of maroon-peaches spinning across the sky - feet dangling from the bed as the cold air comes in.
dearest child, your hair is a mess. the clock is ticking, time ticks on by. the front door will not open, the front door will not....
open and let you in.
raise your hand if you feel okay standing weak in the blinded patterns of broad daylight.
yes dearest child, that is how you let go.
0 Comments: