Birds Still Fly

Living,
We were living, but not quite
We were warm dots in a universe on the face of an apple.
A fresh apple on a plate on a table in a large room under a damaged roof,
And we were walking,
Walking, but in the wrong direction, with compasses made of gold.
Our warmth we wasted on the path to mirages and rotten fruit.
All the while we were talking,
Talking, but that's all, no more.
And the rotten apple sat on a plate on a table in a large room
While through the blue above the cracks in the damaged roof
Birds still flew.




Poetry by Morgan Cellohead
Read 919 times
Written on 2012-01-29 at 04:57

dott Save as a bookmark (requires login)
dott Write a comment (requires login)
dott Send as email (requires login)
dott Print text


Sun.Moon.Stars.Rain
hot


damn.




...

amazing.


why didn't you tell me you wrote this?
2012-04-06


countryfog
I don't usually relate to Surreal poems but this is so evocative, the images so compelling and the mood so well conveyed that I not only like it but feel as though I'm in it. Very well done.
2012-01-29