Rattle their bones off the mountain tops. Like handmade tambourines.
Scavenge to find your art, but make it.
Watch your step though, the hands still reach beyond the soil.
Bring you down, then lift you up. Just like you've always done.
We used to wait for hours, stars to sun, and moon met us in the mornings.
There is the soft waiting scent from autumn still on your skin when you thaw out each year.
I remember that September afternoon, driving by scenery and then off the road.
I stared at the blinding rays in the middle of your eyes that matched the threading of that old shirt.
All trust in Stendhal syndrome-esque dreams. The nostalgia ravages me senseless, pulling me with strings, your little puppet.
Obsessed with counting my steps so I could retrace them, the way you traced your finger tips along me...
Slivers from the tomb I've built and carried to my watery grave.
When you opened it and found I was no longer there.
Reborn with the spring, Bring fauna forth, you'll find me sleeping under trees.
Hide and Seek.
-Saree McClaran
May 28th 2013.
Scavenge to find your art, but make it.
Watch your step though, the hands still reach beyond the soil.
Bring you down, then lift you up. Just like you've always done.
We used to wait for hours, stars to sun, and moon met us in the mornings.
There is the soft waiting scent from autumn still on your skin when you thaw out each year.
I remember that September afternoon, driving by scenery and then off the road.
I stared at the blinding rays in the middle of your eyes that matched the threading of that old shirt.
All trust in Stendhal syndrome-esque dreams. The nostalgia ravages me senseless, pulling me with strings, your little puppet.
Obsessed with counting my steps so I could retrace them, the way you traced your finger tips along me...
Slivers from the tomb I've built and carried to my watery grave.
When you opened it and found I was no longer there.
Reborn with the spring, Bring fauna forth, you'll find me sleeping under trees.
Hide and Seek.
-Saree McClaran
May 28th 2013.
