Friday, August 6, 2010

White Walls

(Pre-Script: This poem is best read as the song, "Blackbird," #47 on the playlist, plays in the background. Go down to the playlist, click on that song, then come back and resume reading. I'll wait...) (...still waiting...)
When I look back, it seems

that I was always bumping into a white wall,

the white wall always just in front of me

and on every side,

only I could never see it-

it's very whiteness was blinding,

so instead I just felt confused

and bruised

and wondered why I wasn't moving forward

and wondered why I could not feel the sun

warm my skin, or even see

my long shadow behind or in front of me,

tall and impressive on the ground,

a dark and brooding shape always changing

so you could never be too sure from which angle

I might be coming

or going,

or who or what I was turning into.

Instead, in a white walled room, my skin looked

purple and cold,

like the bruise of me.


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