Monday, February 07, 2005
comatose(unfinished)
woosh..
in the cusp of blossom,
the tulips are frozen,
inanimate
the rain has stopped
the clouds are drifting away,
almost unveiling the sun
the scent of spring
clings on to the air,
the smell that awakens your lethargic mind
the symphony orchestra is held in a
fermata, awaiting
an
expressione dolce movement.
the conductor's baton, floating in mid-air
mi lady, her countenance,
porcelain-lucent
-almost- smiles
the traffic lights at dusk-
its lights are caught at a moment
in between green and amber
the sprinter-
his right foot is about the touch the ground
suspended in mid-air
it would seem, the
world would be imprisoned, in
this torture of being held, at
the precipice of the realisation of beauty and movement
