Tuesday, November 01, 2005
We have grown cold.
Withered hands raised
as skinny antennas
towards an even colder sky.
And it is at times like this,
that I bow my head
and pray for the sun –
to warm this broken back,
to breathe life
into these cracked hands.
For life lies beneath
transparent skin.
Withered hands raised
as skinny antennas
towards an even colder sky.
And it is at times like this,
that I bow my head
and pray for the sun –
to warm this broken back,
to breathe life
into these cracked hands.
For life lies beneath
transparent skin.