I hide in a Sunday’s shell,
a frosty and white holiday,
my thoughts are locked in a warm cellar,
mice are nibbling in the satchel with memories.

Because of too much silence
I dream that roosters sing,
waking up wrapped in a down pillow,
amidst roots of writhed wings
still ticking slowly
on their first flight.

Electric bells toll in the rain,
heavy scales raise upon me
knocking the dimmed windows.

Life is like marching slowly
over tiny stones.

Categories: My Poems in 2010 | Tags: , , , , , , | Leave a comment

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