On a Sidewalk

November 22, 2009
The minister stands on his
podium, and I am his disciple,
His words digging a hole in the ground.
We walk on the sidewalk,
coffee and whiskey oiling our bones.
I, only I? felt the
warm breath of air tickle
our pallid cheeks.
Quickly, briefly,
such to be: nothing there.
All the while the
minister's voice, scrabbly, silent,
weighs heavily in the air.
One by one we walk,
not so alone as empty.
Not so grasping as
a monotonous tone.
The cheek, I turned
away from the wind,
and warmed my frosted fingers
upon its cooling skin.

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paradise-of-hell said...
Dec. 21, 2009 at 1:58 pm
Loved it, keep up the good work... you had great flow, word diction and a feeling of intense mellowness. :) keep writing
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