She was only seventeen but she always talked about her life as if she had been living it for a decade. It wasnt bad, she was aware that today might always be her last and tomorrow might never show its face She always said, “My whole life…” “My whole life has been a meadow of solitude” Funny; a meadow of solitude But just like her words, she was a walking irony She left puzzle pieces for everyone who had crossed paths with her She was a walking paradox. She was an empty field where authors wanted to farm verses She was a poem in which the syntax didn’t quite conform to the rules of modern poetry She was a hint of crisp and agile She walked and moved in an undaunted yet coy manner I’m telling you, she was a walking paradox. There were days of alacrity where she would she decide that she can, so she does Then there were days of apathy where she would strain herself to feel but her efforts were mute Now keep in mind that she had been hurt; she had once felt more pain that the good Man above would allow. I remember her asking, “Why do I never feel at ease with myself?” I laughed and told her it was a universal pattern Would it have been completely ludicrous to tell her? You could plant seeds in her heart Oh how they would grow and run through her veins This isn’t some gaudy metaphor, She’d let you run through her veins Over and over and over But you’d leave her She is worth more than that But no, don’t treat her like a diamond ‘Cause she’s rather tricky Sensitive yet sharp She was susceptible to even the slightest warmth of unknown subjects that would test her just to have a glimpse of just what could be running through her mind But she’s only seventeen And I would rather live my life like I’m concluding I’ll take a bow every night And my secrets will sleep with me
Posted on: Tue, 02 Sep 2014 15:49:46 +0000
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