Untitled No. 4

In this air, there is a whisper
Cracking hands, a chill of winter
Moving nothing, she just stood there
Nerves connecting in her blank stare
Its like a blanket
A white shine
Moving through time
That she can hold to
He is chasing, a picture he painted
She thinks he'll fix, the times she hated
Haze grows thicker, up the mountain
The blanket deeper, he's almost broken
The picture's faded
He has nothing
That will save her
The air is different, nothing standing
No way to move, this frozen blanket
Her hand waves, rolling over
Helps pull him through, into the story
The scene comes back, sets itself
The light she had, is dimmer now
And all that's left, a wood grain table
Between the two, and what is able

No comments: