you walk in narrow roads. robins cannot fly there. the houses are short and small. and the rats move out. rabbits come and go. you live in one of those houses. you do not fit, you wish there is another world for you. the sun always arrives with anger and burns the bushes. consequently attuned to heat only cactus grows there but its blue flower holds you for another year,and then another. it is your pen that makes you alive. the paper that shelters you. It is not the roof or the bathroom. Love is not in bed. It is on the grass. Come summer, you lay your body on the stones and face the sky. There will be more promises. Hope growing like grass. You shrink your feet if only to walk in comfort and tell more stories, magical as they are, lest you cannot survive. the heat during the day and the extreme coldness of the night.
Posted on: Tue, 22 Apr 2014 14:02:28 +0000
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