Twenty one.

A shattered glass on gleaming floors,
Amber liquid spilling out,
Curtains burnt to make way for
Dream catchers hanging by the door.

Youth runs barefoot on hot concrete
Softened only by thin threads of grass,
There is the sharp salt air of the sea,
There is the jazz, broken, complete.

You cannot feel things in their halves,
The sun is servant to your prow,
Old men whisper that nothing lasts,
But bottled time flies from your mast.

1 comment:

Anonymous said...

Did you write that? It's beautiful and so very poignant. I've really enjoyed your posts...I just recently stumbled (quite literally) upon your blog while google searching for something else. Keep writing :)

-gal from Los Angeles, currently living in Indiana