Thursday, June 24, 2010
Maps like deserts,
with shoes missing sprockets.
On rides towards foul kissed lines
and Great American Pastimes.
Across the fruited plain of sky,
waist gripped tight with thoughts
blinking on and off like firefly horizons,
Kept lit by hope and realizations
that people are fragile as robin's eggs.
That boy which hides inside, and makes me
want to cradle him, and tell him he's the world.
You are not an island, alone,
unless you choose.