Darkness
A sea of liquid taffeta
Dancing into the winds
Of an ammonia storm
A clot
Of that which we ignore
Of closed mouth and of esophagus
Of buried blood
An eye
Blinking furiously
Staring in utmost idiocy
Into sparks of purple and gold
Darkness
A sea of hands gone astray
Of cold breath behind one’s neck
Like an ammonia storm
They are moaning, singing about the love that’s never been. They long for a triumphal appearance, where are you, I haven’t seen you, and they cry when they’re drunk and they laugh when they’re sober. Where is the love, where is the love, all of them sharing their wish. Someday a single beautiful eye will catch their heart, and its gaze will hypnotize them. Heartache will be all they know, and they will cry when they’re drunk and sigh when they’re sober, longing for that eye, that eye, that eye, an eye that never looks at them but looks at the world instead.
This is a comforable blog. I’ve said it before, I’ll say it again. I’m not happy with the template, but when I write here I don’t feel lonely, the way I feel when I’m in Goodbye Yellow Brick Road.
Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth
Then took the other, as just as fair,
And having perhaps the better claim,
Because it was grassy and wanted wear;
Though as for that the passing there
Had worn them really about the same,
And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden black.
Oh, I kept the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way,
I doubted if I should ever come back.
I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I–
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.
–Robert Frost