Tuesday, 23 December 2003
I close my eyes and
I could almost believe I'm in an airplane
if it weren't for the rush
of the traffic's wheels on the road in the rain.
It feels so long now
since she's lived for herself;
her inner child is hiding
and she's running on empty, by rote;
her true nature in hibernation somewhere.
Where is the innocent joy of the season?
Perhaps it was discarded
someplace back along the road.
We stumble over treacherous hazards
and forget to lend an arm to each other
in the difficulty of holding ourselves up.
No this is not precisely the end result I had in mind, but poems seldom are, for me. I may be feeling stinky but at least I was able to wrest a poem out of the melee of my mind. >:P
~ posted by Anna @ 3:49 PM