She'd been so cold, standing out by the spines of weather fronts, staring at gales and gargoyles made from cloud. And lonely too, listening to the voice of the world sobbing as it turned.
She'd whispered to it of course, hoping her words would be enough to fill the cracks were certainty and eternity squabbled. But it was useless, even reciting norse poetry to the North Wind only ended with the rhymes whipped away along with her breath.
So she left, took her hope and strung it gossamer, became smaller than a spider and let herself defy the resistence of gales and flew. Until the weather weakened and she fell. Over paper and ink she sighed. A piece of memory between the lines of dreams and poetry, alive and dancing among the solace of books.
She'd been so cold, standing out by the spines of weather fronts, staring at gales and gargoyles made from cloud. And lonely too, listening to the voice of the world sobbing as it turned.
ReplyDeleteShe'd whispered to it of course, hoping her words would be enough to fill the cracks were certainty and eternity squabbled. But it was useless, even reciting norse poetry to the North Wind only ended with the rhymes whipped away along with her breath.
So she left, took her hope and strung it gossamer, became smaller than a spider and let herself defy the resistence of gales and flew. Until the weather weakened and she fell. Over paper and ink she sighed. A piece of memory between the lines of dreams and poetry, alive and dancing among the solace of books.