thecur3
I woke up that morning not knowing that I will spill my last cup of coffee in blink of time.
The muddy water running in rivers between the orange tiles.
My fingers in the air gasping for air.
Hot boiling water.
Blood rushing down my left hand.
The knife hidden from my sight as I reached for the cold water to ease the burning sensation that had paralyzed the my right arms.
Handicapped for the first and last time.
The stove spitting fire all around. my hair. my dress. the curtains of my heart.
Yes, this will be the last time I spill anything, anything but my broken heart.
Wafer. It rings a bell.
Bells ring in the wind.
The wind that used to run through my hair.
But the wind has stopped running through these empty meadows for sometime now.
no wind. no bells. no wafer.
Wafer. It rings a bell.
Bells ring in the wind.
The wind that used to run through my hair.
The wind has stopped running through these empty meadow for sometime now.
no wind. no bells. no wafer.
Trying to wear my heart upon my sleeve,
To cross that fine boundary that keeps me
Separated from the mainstream.
But I who until this day have had
No shoulder to carry these arms,
Arms that are not mine,
But seem like a distant tool,
Planted there to hunt my blazing soul.
How can I evade this malady,
And bend the dampness, while
Keeping the prairie in my mind from draining?
And yet you endeavor to reach through the fence,
Not knowing that these sleeves are there
Only to conceal this wretched mortal
From the vicious world.