paper chains and daisies,
as puffed up clouds, roll slowly overhead.
We send words back and forth
wrapped in the nothingness of futile empty banter.
Further, along the beach, I watch a little boy
send his yellow kite soaring higher ever higher.
His laughter being carried far out to sea
I need to be that kite –
As liberated as the wind sees fit to make me.
Don’t ask me to look at you
painted smiles, theatrical masks.
It’s not much of me to ask.
It wounds to think of you and me
No, I will not give permission
for you to read me anymore.
That book has long been closed.
Oh, how I hate Sundays –
Sunday bloody Sunday as boring as hell.
What is wrong with me – why can’t I feel
the sun on my face?
I want to sit skimming my stones
applauding out loud – as they dance across,
the big, wide open water.
Poppy August 2013 ~xx~