Over Crowding
I am so weary of crowding memories,they filter, float in translucent shades,
like ghost soldiers, standing sentry
by the drapes of my childhood room.
Picture perfect, is so often untrue,
decipher the smile on a living doll, dead,
dolled up, nowhere to go, only an echo
of a faux fashion nightmare.
Me and you, you and I, as once we were,
there's a cut in the middle, ragged and raw,
I saw with filmy shades, all pink and gooey,
of you and us and when it all was ~ just ~
Sunlit and bright, snowy and cold
Mother, in sheep's wool, you on a sled.
I wasn't yet thought of, still hibernating,
then I appear in a purple sun dress.
I am so weary of crowding my mind,
with shape shifters and drifters
and eternal blue skies, was it lies
in the pictures of when we were young?
Poetry by Elle
Read 597 times
Written on 2009-12-24 at 16:18
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by Elle Latest textsTwo Little CatsHills Not the End Cinders Oh perfect Day |
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