Saturday, July 12, 2008

Time Flies

(Inspiration from York Art Gallery)

Dirty brown feathers,
on tired, old wings.
Resting now, dusty, detached.
The ticking has ceased, for
this time has run out.
No more beating heart,
beating sky, from beneath.
No more slippery air,
sliding through, falling down.

A home made of glass, 
lined with leather, and light.
Where words are your nest,
misty relics your eggs.
Muffled now, hushed voices
sing for you, slow.
Then flutter away, in
hard, wooden steps.


(Inspiration from Castle Museum)

Thunder rattles brittle windows,
blackened sky pours down.
Water splashes shiny cobbles,
Lightening cracks the ground.

My window seat is draughty,
the wind, it reaches in.
Water pools on tinted glass,
my warmth comes from within.

This trinket box, I'm cradling,
this pretty, silver, tomb,
it holds a secret, small and precious,
that makes my cool face burn.

My thoughts are embers,
sparking, dancing,
leaping through my rainy eyes.
They fly to you, through
storms and darkness.
They call to you,
from broken skies.