Tuesday, November 25, 2014
I spread out my hands-
With the weight of the wind in between.
My leaves were already stale,
Yellow and faint.
And there was no sand in-
-Between those pebbles under my feet.
And I couldn’t hide from the orange sky
-Leering on my chest.
And the evening kept me only some chased butterflies
To hang on my nerves as to tickle and flutter
And to count my leaves
And to season themselves-
Before their fast approaching grave.