a smile in her eyes and a sunflower in her hair.* (retro_chica) wrote, @ 2009-08-09 13:15:00

The Absence of Dirt, or the Presence of Soap
i could never be a painter, or a proper composer.
couldn't depict with perfection the
pounding and
rushing.
the sweet chaos, release and power
that came from rain hitting the ground
slapping it,
richoeting it off walls, windows,
leaky roofs.

stampede.

couldn't command the timpanies with the same noise like that.
couldn't make people understand the sheer beauty in its all-mighty form.
my clouds look like cotton balls,
my paints are acryclic, acidic,
wrong.

i could never be a dancer.
never have my toes tap in a fury the way
that sang a song of wisdom and entertainment.
i was like a garden hose,
a leaking faucet.
powerless.
easy.
gentle.

never could turn an umbrella upside down.
never could make your heart spin.
never could knock the power out, even if only for a second.

i make flowers grow and they love me.
they breathe green, and yellow, and blue.
their melodies are timid and all-knowing as they sit beneath
large sycamores, small blades of grass, squrieels,
smelling of fresh,
fresh pine.

i am silence.

the silence that rain makes, that rain leaves.

because before everything,
we're happy, laughing.
oblivious.

and then it comes, pouring.
pouring, rushing, streaming, crying.
it is a giant release.
it is a great cleanse.
it is God scrubbing his drawing board clean as best as he can.
but somehow chalk dust still remains,
you can still see a different shade of black sometimes, with old words.

sometimes all i see is you.

what is it, to be clean?

	silli_lil_sophs 2009-08-11 20:10 (link)
	i loved this. wow. (Reply to this) (Thread)