Black and White

January 17, 2009
By alexis mire, Cocoa, FL

The seasons swallowed piety
And ate the ground with frosty teeth,
Your voice was faltering when you told me,
That you needed it.

Quiet bears hibernate,
Skinfuls of warmth in darkened shells,
In the mountainside.
And your insides sighed,
'Lets just go to sleep'.

But the lack of light,
Leads to black and white,
And your closing eyes, and my pressing palms,
And the muffled sounds lead to brass tears.

The sheets were worn by travelers,
Draped across their backs,
Like my earth on their shoulders,
Their sheets crossed and creased on my skin and bones in the morning light.

And tired birds make their way down for the winter,
Burrowing deeper into the equator,
Sleeping steep,
Swimming deep,
In those sheets,
Of white.

And there's turbulence,
And there's relevance, in the color scheme,
And the things you've said to me,
things you say to me
Bleed into neutrals,
Fade into fifties film, into black and white,
You are black and white.
An old chapter book, a dead language my grandmother took down,
Down to her grave,
But she gave me her blood,
And your twisted tongue, those cryptic words.
And those tired birds,
Still nest in chimneys, and on tattered trees
And that resting bear,
Wakes up in his sleep,
He sees black and white,
And those frozen sheets.

They eat up all the trees,
And he can't get back
to sleep

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