Panic Attack
Things gone from me -
beautiful orange fish, that swim, threaded;
a moustache, twitching in the sea,
and the music green and grey make
when dark, bewitching hills, embrace.
A summer window sill, sweet all day with sun,
spider plants, and a cat's soft nose -
they seem like a still thought, outside me,
gone.
Violins - my veins erase, tulips tut; my fingertips display
not one design,
though frightened and shredded.
People talk fast, past my ear, wring my hands
with words.
They become like lost cousins, relatives I never see.
Rain, I run through, and if I could do, I would do, I would do...
fill my lungs with it, burst in the touch.
I have moved far away from thoughts,
ruined, I have no false hopes for love
though shattered in a need to be kind - to keep all you at peace, away from me...
these things I think, snap.
Cynthia Buell Thomas
Tue 20th Sep 2011 11:18
Marianne, once again a thrilling work; your words make everything vibrate, like an elemental force. I'm with Graham totally - that image of 'grey-green hills' is incredible. I do wonder at some of the commas, and their respective purposes. In a short work perhaps the use of commas should be for a singular reason, because I'm not sure when to relate ideas and when to separate them.