Morning breaks it heart in the usual way.
Flowers gradually turning gold
Books open their white pages
then the writing of us begins.
The storytelling; some of it true
in a relative kind of way.
Print and ink
hurried graffiti, the usual suspects
the usual movie.
Sometimes we bump into old friends
lovers or those we would want to be our lovers.
Here she is now, all of her features changing
into an image I hold out to her.
Am I projecting or obsessing?
One should know, try to understand,
live by a code or a coded life
just underneath the writing.
Evening breaks it heart in the usual way.
Flowers turning to blood
a handwriting we ourselves create.
We look for the storyteller
but he is looking for his partner
The one who opens books
and hears what the pages say
before the words have become
too obvious a fiction.
(c) Eric Ashford 006