derelict home
Posted: Sat Jun 29, 2019 9:14 am
Version 2
Water conjures life in a bottle
lodged between hot stones;
long abandoned ideas,
abstract among dandelions and ivy.
He slips a twist of grass
between his finger and thumb
careful not to razor the skin
and extracts a primal screech.
For no discernable reason
he imagines a pomegranate,
his thumb as it penetrates
the coarsely red shell
to reveal a rich earth of seeds,
as if Mars was a forgotten fruit.
Decay’s barely perceptible murmur
confides with the weeds.
His legs tire from hunkering down,
so he stretches and unlocks knots,
before heading out into the street.
He slips into the flow of faces.
Original
Water conjures life in a bottle
lodged between hot stones.
His long abandoned ideas,
abstract among dandelions and ivy.
He slips a twist of grass
between his finger and thumb
careful not to razor the skin
and extracts a primal screech.
Nothing stirs beneath the heat,
not even dust, but his blood’s
soft murmur and that faint
cracking of an invisible skin.
For no discernable reason
he imagines a pomegranate,
his thumb as it penetrates
the coarsely red shell
to reveal a rich earth of seeds,
as if Mars was a forgotten fruit.
Decay’s barely perceptible voice
whispers through the weeds.
His legs tire from hunkering down,
so he stretches and unlocks knots,
before heading out into the street.
He slips into the flow of faces.
Water conjures life in a bottle
lodged between hot stones;
long abandoned ideas,
abstract among dandelions and ivy.
He slips a twist of grass
between his finger and thumb
careful not to razor the skin
and extracts a primal screech.
For no discernable reason
he imagines a pomegranate,
his thumb as it penetrates
the coarsely red shell
to reveal a rich earth of seeds,
as if Mars was a forgotten fruit.
Decay’s barely perceptible murmur
confides with the weeds.
His legs tire from hunkering down,
so he stretches and unlocks knots,
before heading out into the street.
He slips into the flow of faces.
Original
Water conjures life in a bottle
lodged between hot stones.
His long abandoned ideas,
abstract among dandelions and ivy.
He slips a twist of grass
between his finger and thumb
careful not to razor the skin
and extracts a primal screech.
Nothing stirs beneath the heat,
not even dust, but his blood’s
soft murmur and that faint
cracking of an invisible skin.
For no discernable reason
he imagines a pomegranate,
his thumb as it penetrates
the coarsely red shell
to reveal a rich earth of seeds,
as if Mars was a forgotten fruit.
Decay’s barely perceptible voice
whispers through the weeds.
His legs tire from hunkering down,
so he stretches and unlocks knots,
before heading out into the street.
He slips into the flow of faces.