28 October 2011


let them fingers rest a while
when the eyes close to see patterns
in moments real or surreal that can happen
to one or many with no time to expect nothing
no more pointless stars, no more pointed agitation
sleepless days and nights over blank sheets of paper
built are my forts on real mountain slopes where you ran
playing screaming laughing crying flying your blue green kite
that once flew high and floated slow in my room gathering cobwebs
i'll wait a little longer than required, longer than usual, to learn our song

before we sing it