rusting metal round the windowpanes...a brick-face dingy with black dust and decay...entry doors open to the rain...the roof sagging with the weight of fifty years...wishbone trees growing out of the second and third floor classrooms, like old children reaching now-tired arms toward the threatening sky...the blocky building, like a cold shell discarded after metamorphosis...so sad, so troubling, so much like a generation lost in their own neglect, their own brokenness, their own rusting lives...
and i ponder their mascara-stained faces as i stand in the parking lot taking photos, capturing time and space within a box...and now ageless tears...before i discover they are mine, splashing from my face in the pollen-filled wind.
there is a sea in the wind, and it has washed over my face. the fields are raging, and waves of weeds blow and ebb, and i am tossed ashore, washed up against...the edge of myself.
i tuck in my camera, away from the light, walk past the edge of the parking lot...into the arms of the present...into the arms of the possible...
i will not run away from the tears
for the world is waiting for the love inside
No comments:
Post a Comment