Open my door to change,
Show me my own patterns,
when you cover the world.
I'll grip my thighs,
I'll bend with the road.
I'll gaze at the stars,
smoked with clouds
as they
loosen the filter of the city.
I'll make my home on pavement
protected by a familiar arm.
I'll adapt to my own change.
My new patterns.
As they
watch as I climb on top
of you.
If they aren't already dead,
they will feel [our] heat.
And the mountains
we are parallel with,
at this height,
they will gaze up and watch the stars,
as they gaze down into us.
[...unfinished, for now]
1 comments:
Have I told you how happy I am that you're writing again?
Because this is beautiful.
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