Monday, February 25, 2008

Mist of grey upon tumbling walls

Crosses will fall into the flames, fire will be fought with fire.
Corners will hold tiny burnt bodies, trapped by fallen beams that once held a house together.
No more will there be people.

Its aching cry will stretch across oceans and bounce off icebergs from so far away,
and then there will come a silence.
A silence so loud it rings mercilessly in your ears and you find yourself wishing for those horrible screeches you once detested.

I will fall, flying.
The taste of your lips still on mine and the smell of you in my hair and on my skin.
I will fall, believing.
So maybe i will live and maybe i will not. When it gets that far, we're back to square one.
Correction, you'll be back to square one. Alone.

Perhaps it will be you, holding my limp body in the sand as my fingers brush against your arm, falling.
Perhaps it will be you, crying like i did, except it won't make me respond.

Boats will sail as they always have. Granite floors give way in fear.
A woman will fall, clutching at the stone facade - nails breaking, arms aching, eyes filling with tears of painful realization.
Perhaps you will be there.

Perhaps you will be there, to catch her as she falls. And she will fall into your arms screaming.
still inside, i am dying, though already dead.

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