11-10-2013, 01:32 AM
*revision 3*
The street lamp blinks light.
Dies.
Then blinks again.
Trapped inside the room,
a moth pares its wings on the glass,
falls to the windowsill,
then does it again.
My eyelids do the same.
I remember his mouth.
When the ghosts under his tongue
found mine; stayed there.
And the birds behind our eyes
drank too much to leave.
He told me there's a life
of everything, elsewhere.
I'd be the flayed moth
that made it through the glass,
He, the sun
and my guts would be warm
under him.
Revision #2
The street lamp blinks light.
Dies. Then blinks again.
Trapped inside the room,
a moth pares its wings on the glass,
falls to the windowsill, then does it again.
My eyelids do the same.
I remember his mouth;
how the ghosts under his tongue
found mine, stayed there.
And the birds behind our eyes
drank too much to leave.
He told me there's a life
of everything, elsewhere.
I'd be the flayed moth
that made it through the glass,
He, the sun
and my guts would be warm
under him.
*revision 1*
The street lamp blinks some light, dies, then blinks again.
Trapped inside the room, a moth pares its wings
on the glass, falls to the windowsill, then does it again.
My eyelids do the same.
I remember his mouth;
how the ghosts under his tongue
slid through the gaps of his teeth,
found mine, stayed there.
And the birds behind our eyes
drank too much to leave.
He told me there's a life of everything,
somewhere else; one that isn't made of feathers.
I'd be the flayed moth that made it through the glass,
He, the sun, and my guts would be warmed under him.
*original*
Dark settles on the walls, the street lamp blinks some
light, then dies, then blinks again. A moth- stuck inside
the room- pares its wings on the glass, falls to the
windowsill, then does it again. My eyelids do the same.
I remember his mouth; how the ghosts under
his tongue slid through the cracks of his teeth,
found mine, stayed there. And the birds at the
backs of our eyes drank too much to leave.
He told me there's a life of everything, somewhere
else; one that isn't made of feathers or concrete.
I'd be the flayed moth that made it through the glass,
He, the sun, and my guts would be warmed under him.
The street lamp blinks light.
Dies.
Then blinks again.
Trapped inside the room,
a moth pares its wings on the glass,
falls to the windowsill,
then does it again.
My eyelids do the same.
I remember his mouth.
When the ghosts under his tongue
found mine; stayed there.
And the birds behind our eyes
drank too much to leave.
He told me there's a life
of everything, elsewhere.
I'd be the flayed moth
that made it through the glass,
He, the sun
and my guts would be warm
under him.
Revision #2
The street lamp blinks light.
Dies. Then blinks again.
Trapped inside the room,
a moth pares its wings on the glass,
falls to the windowsill, then does it again.
My eyelids do the same.
I remember his mouth;
how the ghosts under his tongue
found mine, stayed there.
And the birds behind our eyes
drank too much to leave.
He told me there's a life
of everything, elsewhere.
I'd be the flayed moth
that made it through the glass,
He, the sun
and my guts would be warm
under him.
*revision 1*
The street lamp blinks some light, dies, then blinks again.
Trapped inside the room, a moth pares its wings
on the glass, falls to the windowsill, then does it again.
My eyelids do the same.
I remember his mouth;
how the ghosts under his tongue
slid through the gaps of his teeth,
found mine, stayed there.
And the birds behind our eyes
drank too much to leave.
He told me there's a life of everything,
somewhere else; one that isn't made of feathers.
I'd be the flayed moth that made it through the glass,
He, the sun, and my guts would be warmed under him.
*original*
Dark settles on the walls, the street lamp blinks some
light, then dies, then blinks again. A moth- stuck inside
the room- pares its wings on the glass, falls to the
windowsill, then does it again. My eyelids do the same.
I remember his mouth; how the ghosts under
his tongue slid through the cracks of his teeth,
found mine, stayed there. And the birds at the
backs of our eyes drank too much to leave.
He told me there's a life of everything, somewhere
else; one that isn't made of feathers or concrete.
I'd be the flayed moth that made it through the glass,
He, the sun, and my guts would be warmed under him.