We tip-toed through the shadow
of yesterday's morning,
with scars, only visible
in the glare of certain lights,
underneath the skin.
We turned our faces into syllables
and counted out the beats,
watched the wolfram thread its signal
round the four walls of the room,
and played a game to see which one of us
could sit and stay quiet the loudest.
She said she couldn't read my smile,
it wasn't written on my face.
We closed our eyes.
We made love.
We listened to Death from Above.
Comments
alang | April 4, 2009 - 16:53
cool poem. enjoyed reading it :-)
MistakenMagic | April 4, 2009 - 20:51
So many wonderful lines in this piece! I just love:
'We turned our faces into syllables
and counted out the beats,'
and
'and played a game to see which one of us
could sit and stay quiet the loudest.'
AND
'She said she couldn't read my smile,
it wasn't written on my face.'
This is brilliant. Well done.
Magic xxx
Nathan Bednarek | April 5, 2009 - 10:53
'She said she couldn't read my smile,
it wasn't written on my face.'
This is absolutely wonderful!
'We listened to Death from Above.'
Am I to understand that they are doing something bad together and 'hell' is waiting for them? Or am I just being too 'deep'? ;-p
This is a lovely poem with some amazing imagery. Well done.
Nathan.
Ewan | April 5, 2009 - 17:22
As cool as Lounge, Bossa Nova, and caipirinha, not a wasted word.
jennifer | April 5, 2009 - 20:03
Ditto Magic's comment - she has highlighted all my favourite lines!
Superb poem!
J x