Small Things
These are the frightening things of half understood
memories; traipses of corn ears furrowed by a field
wrapped within the sun and its shadows.
Someone walks into it blinded by the white
stretch; their hands over their eyes - those grilled black fingers
unkind to touch, cowardly bent.
Faceless, the rows of industrial secrets
bend and thread; their limbs forming one
muscle of silver, a veil of cold glass
each turn reflects; the farms of incomprehensive crops.
The tools used, teasing the earth from its clay
packs, are tooth-sore; incessant grinds
where appetite has not been, turbine jaws
where water has not spread – things done
without knowing why.
Ploughing through the mist,
hands grab but small things only;
their palms broken up with lines.
Marianne Louise Daniels
Fri 22nd Mar 2013 11:04
yeah I have! Am a big fan of Philip Glass and they are excellent films!! Yes yes!
Thank you for the comments, I have been writing alot recently and have found myself seeking now, as you so well observed Cynthia, an intense desire to be more clearly understood even though the motive behind what I am writing is still dream-like. I want to always push so your appreciating comments are very encouraging. Thank you.
(hee hee youboob)