Are We Ready For the Call?
By owlcry
Round the wrap of my porch the razor wind laps new literary designs from thin-layer chromatographic memories the constituents wave over charred, furring framework, gravel-blindness, delve their shovels into burning ashes. Round the fields of my home fireflies would light their bodies heavenly, from dark, I watched them fly over barbed wire. Flying like ghosts in hanging lines, then dim, and views died, into spider webs crystalline prisoners, captured tapestry, silk-woven, to the moon. Therefore, does disposition design, our rise, or fall from bleeding skyline, apparent junctures fold, upon our eyes, a quest for redemption? Imprisoned fireflies, flicker in soft rain like sparks of sun, in disembodied madness, spectral bits, rain gazes, forced on, silk-like texture of a woven web. We haunt our unsettled choices, that burns faith’s door, as HE carries us into moonlight calling all fireflies, who flew in the field captured by the web, and hope they heard HIM call. Written September 19th, 2001 © on Sep 19 2001 09:44 AM PST 0 • 13
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"Round the wrap of my porch..."