PERSISTENCE OF MEMORY
Under the tree, in the valley,
Stands a girl with no teeth.
For white they never show,
Her smile it will not grow.
She picks up a leaf and
She clutches it, clutches it tightly.
Brown autumn it chips,
Spring shower it drips,
Seasons embedded
In its icy, winter tips.
A solemn gaze she forces
Beyond the snowflakes in her eyes
And the sunshine covered by
The dirt beneath her feet.
Across her skin
Reproach begins to dance,
There not on a whim.
The grass and the rays
And the sweet, sorry dew
She can’t let in.
But they burn and they yearn
For her demise--
The pretty little hatred in her eyes.
Oh, girl, young girl,
Young, perished little mind--
Life enclosed and stifled
In a breathless thimble,
For wrecked naïveté you are the symbol.
She looks and it comes—
That reminding, brutish wind.
It comes, comes on the
Horizon—that distant, closeted
Gleam in her eye stamped out
With the very first gust.
She turns and she wills, tries,
Fails to run. Confront it she must.
In her pocket she fumbles,
For the memory it mumbles--
An anatomical addiction
No remedy for the northerly breeze
That tickles her innermost vein.
She grips the cigarette—
Hot ash in her lungs and it
Chills, chills, chills.
Stands a girl with no teeth.
For white they never show,
Her smile it will not grow.
She picks up a leaf and
She clutches it, clutches it tightly.
Brown autumn it chips,
Spring shower it drips,
Seasons embedded
In its icy, winter tips.
A solemn gaze she forces
Beyond the snowflakes in her eyes
And the sunshine covered by
The dirt beneath her feet.
Across her skin
Reproach begins to dance,
There not on a whim.
The grass and the rays
And the sweet, sorry dew
She can’t let in.
But they burn and they yearn
For her demise--
The pretty little hatred in her eyes.
Oh, girl, young girl,
Young, perished little mind--
Life enclosed and stifled
In a breathless thimble,
For wrecked naïveté you are the symbol.
She looks and it comes—
That reminding, brutish wind.
It comes, comes on the
Horizon—that distant, closeted
Gleam in her eye stamped out
With the very first gust.
She turns and she wills, tries,
Fails to run. Confront it she must.
In her pocket she fumbles,
For the memory it mumbles--
An anatomical addiction
No remedy for the northerly breeze
That tickles her innermost vein.
She grips the cigarette—
Hot ash in her lungs and it
Chills, chills, chills.