iris
03-09-2003, 11:13 PM
After
Water falls,
high upon the
plain. Girl
without a future -
lover without a home.
That red-gold
hue of autumn
calling - changes loud.
There is no "here"
between the seasons,
so she floats among uncertainty
and sips at life - alone.
Break Time
You trip, then scamper,
rush of grace.
A slip but
you’re quick—
just a twist of fate.
Slide into sleep.
Hush.
Slow down…
…drift to a stop.
Hold.
You may soar faster but not higher,
a simple mathematic code—
that if you jump just to jump,
you’ll most likely explode.
Fragments of My Night
Carry me away…
Trailing fingers…
Nape
Small of back
Crevice
Soft breath…you laugh.
Smooth planes, hard crease.
Come into,
break open.
Reach
Leaving now?
So soon?
Stay…did you ever?
…Never.
Where's the punch-line?
She – translucent
skin and thin
bones. Light
blue lines crisscross
her cover – barely there,
just under where
she hides
her beauty. So
easy to break her
mind. Fixed
in its own impressions of
lovely and what
she feels. So “pretty”
is just a joke
that everyone gets
accept her.
http://www.abo.fi/fak/esf/docs/images/copyright.gif All poems property of i.s.y and p.s.y. Author p.s.y.
Water falls,
high upon the
plain. Girl
without a future -
lover without a home.
That red-gold
hue of autumn
calling - changes loud.
There is no "here"
between the seasons,
so she floats among uncertainty
and sips at life - alone.
Break Time
You trip, then scamper,
rush of grace.
A slip but
you’re quick—
just a twist of fate.
Slide into sleep.
Hush.
Slow down…
…drift to a stop.
Hold.
You may soar faster but not higher,
a simple mathematic code—
that if you jump just to jump,
you’ll most likely explode.
Fragments of My Night
Carry me away…
Trailing fingers…
Nape
Small of back
Crevice
Soft breath…you laugh.
Smooth planes, hard crease.
Come into,
break open.
Reach
Leaving now?
So soon?
Stay…did you ever?
…Never.
Where's the punch-line?
She – translucent
skin and thin
bones. Light
blue lines crisscross
her cover – barely there,
just under where
she hides
her beauty. So
easy to break her
mind. Fixed
in its own impressions of
lovely and what
she feels. So “pretty”
is just a joke
that everyone gets
accept her.
http://www.abo.fi/fak/esf/docs/images/copyright.gif All poems property of i.s.y and p.s.y. Author p.s.y.