Confetti cotton cloud
Ellen spoke in volumes, but yet rested breath.
Ellen yielded to the subtle woe, and she remained.
Ellen took with her a sandwich, saw seagulls following,
and she sat in the Saturday morning rain ---
These birds were true to her, truer than sudden shock, awakened wariness proved
flocks right in their boundless making fun of this enigmatic person who sat still still to watch them. They rode the Saturday’s whitewash, creeping closer.
These were birds of fancy, not of prey.
Each step they took, teetering, all three fossicked for her attention.
Ellen took a bite of her sandwich, her better judgement lapsed,
and she reached out for her favourite bird she’d named Igor.
Igor came closer and nibbled from her a piece of white bread.
Naught was calm.
The birds bickered, and Igor lost the war.
Over the rooftop sanctuary, the rains stilted in the sky,
and it became serene. Deeper forming a subdued,
taking her own breath,
Ellen envisioned an eclipsed moon.
The birds’ shrieks reminded her of being young. And how we all came to bemoan our losses, and how we scratch and scramble for our ends.
If on this workplace rooftop parking lot, her stillness masked a green-eyed twitch she felt for all the other interns, in there, inside, below and beyond hustling into nick-namery and pleasurable petting to procreate a sweeping mess with silent words and whistles designed to progress on prowess. They built walls to climb.
There’re levers in this world.
You can leave this world.
Little cold leaf, whittled world.
Fun is and has many hands. It will be there when the faint minute deadens to a click, when odes to thatched turrets beckon us to heal from silhouettes bygone. Are they your shadows? Do you will their presence; do you wish they’d come in? And how abounds your raincloud above you’d ever so beget to see, drained of life and fervour crying out to the sea?
Ellen spoke in volumes, but yet rested breath.
Ellen yielded to the subtle woe, and she remained.
Ellen took with her a sandwich, saw seagulls following,
and she sat in the Saturday morning rain ---
These birds were true to her, truer than sudden shock, awakened wariness proved
flocks right in their boundless making fun of this enigmatic person who sat still still to watch them. They rode the Saturday’s whitewash, creeping closer.
These were birds of fancy, not of prey.
Each step they took, teetering, all three fossicked for her attention.
Ellen took a bite of her sandwich, her better judgement lapsed,
and she reached out for her favourite bird she’d named Igor.
Igor came closer and nibbled from her a piece of white bread.
Naught was calm.
The birds bickered, and Igor lost the war.
Over the rooftop sanctuary, the rains stilted in the sky,
and it became serene. Deeper forming a subdued,
taking her own breath,
Ellen envisioned an eclipsed moon.
The birds’ shrieks reminded her of being young. And how we all came to bemoan our losses, and how we scratch and scramble for our ends.
If on this workplace rooftop parking lot, her stillness masked a green-eyed twitch she felt for all the other interns, in there, inside, below and beyond hustling into nick-namery and pleasurable petting to procreate a sweeping mess with silent words and whistles designed to progress on prowess. They built walls to climb.
There’re levers in this world.
You can leave this world.
Little cold leaf, whittled world.
Fun is and has many hands. It will be there when the faint minute deadens to a click, when odes to thatched turrets beckon us to heal from silhouettes bygone. Are they your shadows? Do you will their presence; do you wish they’d come in? And how abounds your raincloud above you’d ever so beget to see, drained of life and fervour crying out to the sea?
While up high,
kid once broken,
crumbles underneath the sky,
if you hadn’t spoken.
Spoiled were the birds that came and found a girl stationed, built inside a lidded dome, the created house given to see, echoed of her heart’s respondent seeds that lay aside of she. She’d sprinkled them home, and she’d covered their heads, and all that was left was a dreaded bloom of the insistent end.
Through all these whistles and quips, many of friends may pretend waiting for shalom. At the height of night, one strives for a quenched thirst for destruction, and one might delight in the silence.
Ellen wouldn’t hear them coming, and she’d wait here all day paying it no mind.
And in that sad time – there came a bird whistling to her a sign.
Anew is the Day’s Power,
Source of Creative Keys,
Out of this brilliant hour,
Birds wishes are these:
on stirred provocations, glide toward our fantasy desire, fantastical rich,
to bid salutation ~
You have to grow up
Before you’ll see
The harbour dock
Returns us safely to thee.
kid once broken,
crumbles underneath the sky,
if you hadn’t spoken.
Spoiled were the birds that came and found a girl stationed, built inside a lidded dome, the created house given to see, echoed of her heart’s respondent seeds that lay aside of she. She’d sprinkled them home, and she’d covered their heads, and all that was left was a dreaded bloom of the insistent end.
Through all these whistles and quips, many of friends may pretend waiting for shalom. At the height of night, one strives for a quenched thirst for destruction, and one might delight in the silence.
Ellen wouldn’t hear them coming, and she’d wait here all day paying it no mind.
And in that sad time – there came a bird whistling to her a sign.
Anew is the Day’s Power,
Source of Creative Keys,
Out of this brilliant hour,
Birds wishes are these:
on stirred provocations, glide toward our fantasy desire, fantastical rich,
to bid salutation ~
You have to grow up
Before you’ll see
The harbour dock
Returns us safely to thee.
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