Monday, July 19, 2010

Smothered in a Freshly Dried Comforter

In weather like this
smoke doesn't float
away it just hangs,
like a cloud around
your face. You are
your own fog machine
creating a shroud of
mystery you'll never
be able to dissolve.

It takes a fool to
attempt obliteration
as a path to brilliance.
Someone blind enough to
mistake making bruises for
forming a cocoon.
Optimistic enough to
hope that once they fall
through the bottom
they'll be out of the box for good.

No comments:

Post a Comment