Oh I know the horrors of weekdays; worry and love.
Congratulations on the way the 'hostage' lurks behind the images of
this poem; how the unmerciful working week looms, threatening, over
the wet weekend.
There is a wonderful economy in this poem - so few words to evoke so
--- In firstname.lastname@example.org, ambient_dreamer <no_reply@y...>
> This morning I awoke to the shedding sound
> of the sky's wet skin, to the shhhh like whistle
> of wet black rubber spitting out puddles
> "Get up," the morning whispers, "for the dark has crept away."
> It's Saturday morning and even with the rain, it's a special time.
> A quiet start to a two day moment to breathe, to an interval to
> about the horror that unmercifully propelled me through the week.
> Maybe the sky cries for me, for humanity held hostage in flesh
> and right now I wish I could crawl out of my skin-morning
> burst out of this wretched shell and mingle for a moment
> like a spirit in the rain, feeling the wet grass the way the
> and somehow be forever free of worry and love
> just dancing on eternity, on raindrops, and never wake again.
> 4/2/05 A.D.