Le paradis n'est pas artificiel …

April 10, 2004

Wordless Sonnet

It's a rootless metropolis, a stone

house of rain, this glass city of promise,

where again and again we take hope in

blossoms, yet shrink back at the way each fall

casts a shadow --- each one a blank page in

our hearts --- Hey listen, hey buddy, give me

your change? Well, they remind us at least that

we've long been this way: stumbling shadows,

coins clenched in lips grey and loveless. We've

slipped; they're just listless asides stored in torn

shopping bags, and our eyes --- bound in plastic,

white-elephant tagged, cheap --- can't describe this

spring. Wordlessly cold, wandering streets, eyes

falling like blossoms wherever they meet.

Posted by Delire at April 10, 2004 01:12 AM
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