Patterns

By , Winnfield, LA
Weight on the cotton from the dense saturated sky,
He sits in the field while the summer sun draws high.
His blue eyes mark the forlorn sadness on his face,
Those saturated worlds spinning still in place.

His mind’s quick to defend and his body’s casting shadows,
As dreary as the mockingbirds calling to the swallows.
Taking advantage of our youth makes it no youth at all,
So let’s shut down our minds just like the trees in the fall.

Twenty miles that separate, this world’s not very far.
Wasted days and sleepless nights skitter through it all.
You always fit inside my life, a hand inside a glove,
When we call attention to ourselves, then really it’s not love.

The tick-tock degrees of the fiery sun catapult through the air
Adds to the pain between us that you somehow chose to share.
We push and sift through embers gold, like burning through the rubble,
Of the wall you built to keep things out that was never worth the trouble.

And once we discover that this world’s not our own as we thought it such,
It turns out that our too full hands can only hold so much.
And our hearts cascade and burn in echo to our weathered hands,
We’ll just wait until the time is right so we can fall in love again.





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