She collects untangled syllables
from eaves-dropped conversations.
Senseless sentences she’s pouring
on the kitchen-floor;
she sorts them carefully in color-codes;
the jealous green with yellow strands
and crimson anger with a wintry blues.
She hides the sooty threads of sorrow
and carefully she twists
a noose to pull in case she needs.
But she spins their past with words and
weaves with silver lures of lust
and promises to capture him in dreams again.
But soon again the dreams will oxidize to ash.
I still recall her pearls of trickling water,
before the vinegar of words dissolved her joy;
When he was just a boy;
before she started to record
the sentences she weaves to
razor-wire comfort blankets
and concrete pillows for their nights.
To lumpy curtains to be used
as shroud when dreams have drowned.
A day when she will pull the noose.
This poem is written to my own prompt at toads of being in the moment and yet at the same time being in the past and the future. I also link this to Poetry Pantry.
November 29, 2014