|admit it. my cat is probably the cutest thing in the world.|
She IsStretched out,She Is by fatcatbeatrice
Over the world,
She has a veil,
Made of dragonfly’s wings.
She was born of fire,
In a time when a single park,
Contained galaxies spinning with planets,
And asteroids dancing with moons.
And settled over her,
Like a blanket,
Keeping her warm,
Spreading ashes and stars in her hair.
In the safety of the primordial heat she bathed,
Swimming with the molten rock,
Until she closed her eyes,
And felt the sun burn against her eyelids.
The sky became her canvas.
It was a place to leave the heat that had seared across her cornea,
And to complement it with her moods.
She painted rosy dawns,
And flaming sunsets,
Calm blue skies,
Nights thick and blue-black,
Whatever her heart desired.
And when she colored a purple twilight,
Melting into night,
She sang a lullaby,
It reached down,
From above the world,
To the lull the sun to sleep.
She choreographed mad storms,
And danced with the wind,
dreamerShe wishes she could catch leaves on her tongue,dreamer by fatcatbeatrice
Or gather a bucket of moonlight from the lake at night.
She lives in a world cloaked in wistfulness,
Where she can build a house out of shells and call it a mansion,
Or turn diamonds into dew drops.
She is a dreamer.
Half the time she is on vacation,
On the bus,
She sees what others can’t.
She sees a fairy underneath a toadstool,
An angel living among the pigeons of the city,
Bright koi swimming in grey puddles,
Carried in by the rain.
She can imagine.
She imagines where else she might be,
What else she might see,
Who else she might meet,
If reality might unchain her.
If she could fly free of whispers,
And float into a universe where whales fly,
And flowers sprout form the end of her braids.
When she was young,
Her vibrant mind was praised,
Her drawing of underground lakes filled with firefly fish hung at the center of the board.
She was happy.
All they ask of her is to deliver a decent personal n
Springtime always raged with feverroly-polys squirming on the balls of my feet,
end of the day, the line and the world
but only for you; my words still taste like coffee cups
ground in the bottom of the trashcan,
and my hands? They tremble with the rage of single's night
and the button eyes on teddy bears who can't
fight off the darkness anymore, because now it's inside you
skittering on insectile legs veined in sanguinity
you sainted pestilence, rid me of my lucid dreams
I remember all too clearly the morning after.
I miss the megaliths of bark and sap
that rooted themselves to my shoulder-blades
like mountainous wings, groundwater flooding through me
and the whistle of the train as smoke exits my lungs
in a futile endeavor to taste the sky, before it is devoured by wind
that rushes through my irises, purple or hazel;
you already knew I was made of clotted earth
and bookmarked thesauruses that dangle from my ribcage.
You knew I was a distaster waiting to strike, waiting
helpless beneath the years that erode sensibilit