Poetry

Shadow

In another life, I’d be a painter, an architect, someone who rummages through antiques and builds vintage beauties

bejeweled contraptions,

no real purpose.

In another life, I’d be a busker, a savant on the guitar, a manic nightwalker whispering lewd melodies in virgin ears. I’d be your underbelly. Your shadow. Your pulse.

Through the vines, the brick glares down at our little road.

I love the walk more than any cellar, any fireplace, anywhere you or I would feign complacency,

build a home.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s