Saturday, February 5, 2011

A Carpet of Paper Tea

Somewhere in the midst of a humid air, I nestle on the floor. My skin is crinkly, I flap sporadically in the gusts of man made breeze, which spill from the little retro fan nearby. I hear it rattle, rattle, all night long. If only I could reach it, but I have no limbs.

I am but a body, a blank unbound canvas, an unwritten story, a life not lived. No one but me knows I see or hear, so quiet I remain, if not for my gentle flapping.. in the man made breeze.

After swimming in a rich brown ocean, I came up for air. Now I find myself on a plastic sheet, basking in the great wide open, waiting to dry. My skin changes, from damp to coarse.. to silky soft. Only in the latter of the stages, do I feel fingertips run over me; their energy introducing me to all I will be...

...a tea stained page of reverie.

Reverie, not mine;
A breath from another.
A pause, with ink or lead;
A reminiscing or future dream.

With other pages I gather, we are bound as one.
Then dressed in old leather,
We'll stay this way...

Until another time's undone.

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