Cut Short of Sympathy
it’s not that I don’t want to see her,
it’s just that I can’t.
I mean, I really want to–
—-s, I expect its return until the day it comes. It’s always the last day.
So as she stands there, on the
of the forest, adorned in a white dress cut short of sympathy,
I wait patiently, mind you, for I wait until the sun hits just the right place and just the right tree so that the lighting is just right because the sun is in the right place and it hits the right tree–
Sometimes I hope it will burn it down.
But then I remember that there’s no
L A RRRRRR GGGGGGG EEEEEEEE
L A A R R G G EEEEEEEEE
L A AAAAA RRRRR G GGGGG E
LLLLLLLL A A R R G GGGGGGG EEEEEEEE
as some might call it,
to focus on. Rather, there’s no huge magnifying glass in the sky, but rather in our hearts, in our minds, that tell us– “It’s not that bad.” And there’s another that says:
“Oh but it is.”
And we always listen to the last thing we’re told, and we forget the rest because it’s so far in the past.
“The world doesn’t revolve around you,” becomes simply “You.”
The erroneous world is fixable, in some sense, yet the saying still goes “If it ain’t broke, don’t fix it.”
So no one does.
But there’s always something that we try to strive for. And for me, it’s her.
So sometimes I squint my eyes to try and see her,
standing at the
of the forest, her skirt cut to the length of patience, laced with all of my imagination. And