20 January 2011

Poetry

He laid emeralds in her eyes,
but I'd already tried a braclet made of gold
and a scarlet thread around her wrist.
And everything was wrong so we sang sentimental songs.
Oh, how seldom we belong, but how elegant our kiss. and we painted crooked lines but we danced in perfect time to a love so much refined, we know not what it is. so like the dullen wine we poor into a grief we'd known before, but never quite like this.
all i know now is regret. she follows like a silhouette of a cobblestone behind me. she has nothing left to say except to innocently ask, her voice delicate as glass. do you see me when we pass?
but i continue on my way.

From Norma Jean

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