Post by Dice on Jan 25, 2008 19:09:57 GMT -5
This was submitted for my school's magazine contest. The prompt was to choose a quote or a picture and write a poem/short story about it. My quote was:
"But for now we are young, let us lay in the sun and count every beautiful thing we can see." (from a song by Neutral Milk Hotel, apparently).
Stardust
you are still young seeking stardust
found first fleetingly in summer rains
and sunkissed shimmering on your face
(and when the sunset clouds shift you swear
there could be heaven in the spaces in between)
the girl at the playground is so beautiful it startles you,
like meteors and flash floods are beautiful;
you think there must be some stardust glimmer here to find
in gleaming blonde hair and blue blue eyes
like all those painters' angels
although possibly she was brunette last week.
she talks miles-per-minute on her phone
and you think that either distance makes the heart grow fonder
or she's just afraid of silence
(because distance equals rate x time but silence equals sorrow)
coffee-smeared lips curve to catch smoke
spun out spidery in the air around her like a
hollow halo imitation, it can't absolve
the sick smell on her breath.
is perfection overrated? you wonder if
her cigarette smoke is more solid than your dreams.
when she walks past you hold your breath
and the faintly smoky breeze behind her
drifts across your palms and they are empty.
there's glitter under her eyes but
oh, she's the wrong kind of dust,
the ashes kind.
"But for now we are young, let us lay in the sun and count every beautiful thing we can see." (from a song by Neutral Milk Hotel, apparently).
Stardust
you are still young seeking stardust
found first fleetingly in summer rains
and sunkissed shimmering on your face
(and when the sunset clouds shift you swear
there could be heaven in the spaces in between)
the girl at the playground is so beautiful it startles you,
like meteors and flash floods are beautiful;
you think there must be some stardust glimmer here to find
in gleaming blonde hair and blue blue eyes
like all those painters' angels
although possibly she was brunette last week.
she talks miles-per-minute on her phone
and you think that either distance makes the heart grow fonder
or she's just afraid of silence
(because distance equals rate x time but silence equals sorrow)
coffee-smeared lips curve to catch smoke
spun out spidery in the air around her like a
hollow halo imitation, it can't absolve
the sick smell on her breath.
is perfection overrated? you wonder if
her cigarette smoke is more solid than your dreams.
when she walks past you hold your breath
and the faintly smoky breeze behind her
drifts across your palms and they are empty.
there's glitter under her eyes but
oh, she's the wrong kind of dust,
the ashes kind.
