(no subject)

[proximoception]

No, I never move from where it's dry
Here in this wicker chair beneath the eaves.
Wet leaves, wet stabs, wet everyones blow by.
I know that in the alley there the leaves
Now make a ramp that ends three meters high.
I know the hidden door beneath receives
Such shy knocks that they'll never wake reply.
I feel the shingles, dark until they shine
And treetops that the high rains undefine.

The drier that I get the more I know.
I see the people, how and where they go.
Behind the walls, upstairs, each with a glow
That doesn't have to reach my eyes to show
The wickedness they leave half done for shame,
The love that can't remember why it came.

Comments

[karinmollberg.livejournal.com]

I find that quite good besides lovely, if you don´t mind the expression too much.