Stream of consciousness #6

I suppose you could say the village grave poem and this one are loosely related to Romeo and Juliet since that’s what we’re studying in English class right now…

Stream of consciousness #6

at the foot of my door sits a wench

whose legs are bent

and doesn’t speak a word to me

even when I whisper hello to her.

she minds her own business, I think, or at lest I think that’s what I think

you left me, like a wilted flower,

did I look like the woman there?

disheveled hair?

or was I a bundle of wilts

lying like a mung-root, crying my eyes out

simple, pleading, desperation?

x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x

where the devil’s head are you? I plead, I scream and struggle to hold onto a mung-root that beetroot still stuck in the soil. Howling, touching the innermost fibers of the ground. I see the sky unfold, I think, or I think that’s what I think, It lies there, like a lilting summer facade, you touched it, it melts almost instantly. and it hurts. “WHY YOU DID THAT?” lying in pain, I howl, yelling, looking at her face, which is also scarred from a charred facade late years ago. I whimper to her, but I see only kind eyes, and an understanding smile: she is my mother I realize, she is my mother.

x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x

light as a feather you are, light as a feather.

you lift up only one finger, and come crashing down.

you swore on the seedling

that it would lift you up

and temporarily

you were a smart girl-

you did not kiss boys in the street

and neel at their feet

like kristabella whose eyes have tempted everyone and anyone

you keep your distance girl

you stay safe