i wrote <br />two lines <br />in the mud of this <br />paper painted <br />white <br />with old <br />thoughts <br /> <br />i touched the chord <br />of my dream and <br />tried to <br />unplug the <br />pictures. <br /> <br />all static <br />now. <br /> <br />“snow” they say <br />is coming <br />over the hills <br />maybe even <br />over this one. <br /> <br />that angel ash, <br />that Pompeii puss. <br /> <br />somewhere I have <br />lived this life <br />before <br />i’m sure of it. <br />the weatherman <br />doing his song <br />and dance <br />my hand <br />brushing crumbs <br />from my jacket. <br /> <br />i wrote three lines. <br />my finger tracing <br />circles <br />left by coffee cups, <br />cigars, <br />the red stains <br />of spilled wine. <br />drawing the <br />geometry <br />of age. <br /> <br />it’s simple <br />really, <br />“your words were <br />never less than <br />everything” <br /> <br />i’ve found it’s <br />easiest <br />to say <br />the hard <br />things <br />before you <br />wake <br />up.<br /><br />Ben Paynter<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/on-this-old-wood-table/
