My Tiny is a daisy, but mighty is her rowr
Aqua skies melt derision and deference in her wide wet eyes
She is framed by canary diamond silk streaks and sheets
A hollow cloud withers in her trembling hands and dies
All of this is hidden by Maybell masks for everyone she meets.
She is framed by canary diamond silk streaks and sheets
As he chips away the last shreds of innocence of eighteen
All of this is hidden by Maybell masks for everyone she meets
The tenderness he seems to give is really only mean.
As he chips away the last shreds of innocence of eighteen
She turns to face the darkness and declare battle deep within
The tenderness he seems to give is really only mean
The time has come to run away from eighteen years of sin.
She turns to face the darkness and declare battle deep within
The past no longer matters as she must cut a whole new path
The time has come to run away from eighteen years of sin
To embrace the truth of her now the word will know her wrath.
The past no longer matters as she must cut a whole new path
A hollow cloud withers in her trembling hands and dies
To embrace the truth of her now the word will know her wrath
Aqua skies melt derision and deference in her wide wet eyes.
Showing posts with label week four. Show all posts
Showing posts with label week four. Show all posts
Thursday, April 30, 2009
Sunday, March 8, 2009
Come One, Come All
The Circus; such a dirty phrase that does
no justice to the old magic of the
word Carnival. The Carnival was such
a place of intrigue, false identities
and shrouded faces which we flirted with
as children, peeking from behind our parents legs.
The men and women of the show did so
much else than perform feats and tricks. Hidden
from paying eyes, the people under the
grease-paint and top-hats, stage lights, leotards
and glitter, lived in trailers cracked with rust.
With no one watching, they would play the songs
of home – of Spain, of Sweden, of Utah –
to children of their own, and whisper tunes
in French and Gaelic over tinny sounds
of mandolins and banjos under the
deflated Big Top and ice-white moonlight.
no justice to the old magic of the
word Carnival. The Carnival was such
a place of intrigue, false identities
and shrouded faces which we flirted with
as children, peeking from behind our parents legs.
The men and women of the show did so
much else than perform feats and tricks. Hidden
from paying eyes, the people under the
grease-paint and top-hats, stage lights, leotards
and glitter, lived in trailers cracked with rust.
With no one watching, they would play the songs
of home – of Spain, of Sweden, of Utah –
to children of their own, and whisper tunes
in French and Gaelic over tinny sounds
of mandolins and banjos under the
deflated Big Top and ice-white moonlight.
Wednesday, March 4, 2009
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