Choices
When she slept on the grass, it seemed she were a plant. And if you'd pluck one of her leaves she'd no longer be able to express her pain.
When she slept on the winds, it seemed she were a cloud. And if there's a storm she'd breakdown in happiness.
When she slept on a palm, it seemed she were a child. And if her mother returned she'd smile in her sleep.
When she slept in my eyes, it seemed she were aglow. And if the angels came, they'd burn in her flame.
When she slept inside me, it seemed she were awake. And if ever she were to wake up from the others, she promised she'd sleep inside me.
When she slept on the winds, it seemed she were a cloud. And if there's a storm she'd breakdown in happiness.
When she slept on a palm, it seemed she were a child. And if her mother returned she'd smile in her sleep.
When she slept in my eyes, it seemed she were aglow. And if the angels came, they'd burn in her flame.
When she slept inside me, it seemed she were awake. And if ever she were to wake up from the others, she promised she'd sleep inside me.
Labels: angels, children, cloud. storm, fiction, fiction. flash fiction, grass, mother, pain, plant, short story, sleep, story, surreal
9/22/2007 2:57 AM
Beautiful - prose that reads as poetry, poetry that reads as prose. So simple but so limitless in depth.
I once wrote something about whether the colour of the sheets you slept on affected your days... top