Saturday, February 27, 2010

End scene

You dream of rolling hills
jade and emerald and
brimming with adjectives to
file away for a foggy morning,
and briefcases that click
into place
when you close them, and
of white shirts
with a singular button undone;
sleeves rolled up crisp,
like the paper cranes
that float from your ceiling.

And I wonder if,
in your quest to suppress
the things that once made you
leap across stages,
you remember the time
you stole my poetry.
But I mostly wonder
if you care at all
that I let you.


HiQKid (Alex) said...

Your writing always makes me smile, and this is beautiful.

Edna said...

It is. Too bad the efforts behind the words are futile.

Edna said...

The title is the best part in my opinion, by the way.

HiQKid (Alex) said...

"Too bad the efforts behind the words are futile."?
Seriously, Edna?

Fuck. That. Noise.

Nothing's futile if you do it with hope, or joy, or love. Or if it's a true thing.

Fleeting, perhaps, but never futile.
It's kind of sad that you don't understand that.

Is sunshine futile, too?

Anonymous said...

agreed with Alex. I enjoy reading your work. I've been reading your blogs since Xanga and I love your work dearly. :]