MILK and HONEY
Milk and honey were their lies, in years of well-worn weather, beaten-down years and dreams of rebuilding that never came true. We made it through with cracks in our skin, leaks in our roof, washed clean and bleached by the sun. It's hard to be a south-facing soul, you take the brunt of every storm, and the breezes bend you backward. All your stories end up forgotten, unwritten on pages blown away and moth-eaten. But it's a lovely, lonely way to go, and I'm glad to be here for the crumbling, stumbling through time. We're all travelers back to the beginning, to our foundations, or our skeletons, thinning.
Gone, baby, gone, are the houses in my head. On hilltops, down hollows, through the crevices called the mountains of home, all alone. But they've been together, once upon a time. They've stood in straight lines for a century or so before growing crooked with the shifting earth below. She's dearly departed, from Brooklyn to Heaven, no longer overlooking Middleton town. She's a bare spot on the ground, naked as the grass, the last remnant swept clean and blown dry with the winds from Spa Springs to Mount Hanley. But she comes in handy for a dreamer like me, something to keep my inspiration wide awake. It's a muse I can use when the day is uninspired, a constant run-down reinvention.
The past never gets old.
MILK and HONEY
Milk and honey were their lies, in years of well-worn weather, beaten-down years and dreams of rebuilding that never came true. We made it through with cracks in our skin, leaks in our roof, washed clean and bleached by the sun. It's hard to be a south-facing soul, you take the brunt of every storm, and the breezes bend you backward. All your stories end up forgotten, unwritten on pages blown away and moth-eaten. But it's a lovely, lonely way to go, and I'm glad to be here for the crumbling, stumbling through time. We're all travelers back to the beginning, to our foundations, or our skeletons, thinning.
Gone, baby, gone, are the houses in my head. On hilltops, down hollows, through the crevices called the mountains of home, all alone. But they've been together, once upon a time. They've stood in straight lines for a century or so before growing crooked with the shifting earth below. She's dearly departed, from Brooklyn to Heaven, no longer overlooking Middleton town. She's a bare spot on the ground, naked as the grass, the last remnant swept clean and blown dry with the winds from Spa Springs to Mount Hanley. But she comes in handy for a dreamer like me, something to keep my inspiration wide awake. It's a muse I can use when the day is uninspired, a constant run-down reinvention.
The past never gets old.