Wednesday, October 28, 2009

The Comfort of an Old World Charm

It is gray, damp, blowsy,
and cold upon on an October
hearth of unwashed ruddy stone,
illuminated by the crinkled
lore of a child's knotted art.

A spiced orange candle
flickers in the light
of a setting sun, not seen.

The smell of an old book
devoid of linear logical thought
tangles emotive emissions,
unleashing the saline dripping
like a wash of unsobbed tears.

Rain lashes at windows
in tapping cadence
with the swallow of
a drainpipe's belch;
a backlash of rushing leaves
is heard through the windowpane.

No clocks are ticking
in the timeless luxury
of a plush pillowed couch.

A stoic velveteen rabbit
twitches as the yellowed pages
are lovingly captured and turned
into a tapestry of transcribed loss.

A sonorant sigh acknowledges a sentiment:

Ah.....Proust take me home.

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