I warn you, this is complete and utter nonsense. I killed grammar and left her for the cats.
And the silent rushing
wind swept with a vigor of withered leaves
stirs up freshly a new
In the night, but not
pitch dark. The gentle darkness, rather, with a kind of
lifting excitement that
makes the heart beat a moment faster for reasons
the harried mind can't
understand; but eagerly like Christmas, grasping, disappearing, there
are no fingers to catch these images, these non-existences, and put
them into place. But the heart so frankly yearning, wishing to live
out these cold and snapping roses, the stinging cheeks & smiles, a
bright street-lamp laughter daubed in burgundies and deep golds;
carriage clatter, mindless, swerving; it's hard to capture quite
the moment (why can't it solidify!)—to run fingers over, eyes
drinking in, the sprinkling of sounds becoming sharp and clear like
they never really were. Train-freight calling in the distance. Santa
Claus rolls over into intermediary spring; the sleepy icicles
awakening and my dreams put to rest beside magical fireplaces and
hot gingerbread (things always taste better in the head). Because
reality never quite matches up with our expectations (hung upside
down like drying lavender), or mine at least, too cynical to taste
the sweetness of snow, and sometimes there's no help wondering if
we're better left in this perfect realm of disillusions, or should
we shatter and let reality bleed in? The former is the pleasanter,
but practicality accords with the latter; and old people always say
they've lived so long and drowned so far and I guess maybe second
tries are better than you think they are.
still waiting for Christmas.
yeah, that's basically what I was thinking-feeling the other night.