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Literature Text
You’re painted on the walls behind the foreground,
a flat and silent being scraped on stone,
presenting all you are frozen silence --
acknowledged by the passerby alone.
You strike us as a vague and touchless person,
the kind which takes a glance as an embrace.
You strike us as a momentary movement;
a stranger on the side without a face.
We do not see a thought beyond the markings
that make you up upon the quiet wall
but not because of blindness or disint’rest --
because there’s nothing more to you at all.
We do not stop for long to look upon you.
You are an option to our denser lives.
You are the air where nobody is breathing.
You are the kind who is and who survives.
a flat and silent being scraped on stone,
presenting all you are frozen silence --
acknowledged by the passerby alone.
You strike us as a vague and touchless person,
the kind which takes a glance as an embrace.
You strike us as a momentary movement;
a stranger on the side without a face.
We do not see a thought beyond the markings
that make you up upon the quiet wall
but not because of blindness or disint’rest --
because there’s nothing more to you at all.
We do not stop for long to look upon you.
You are an option to our denser lives.
You are the air where nobody is breathing.
You are the kind who is and who survives.
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i wrote this to me.
Comments16
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I love the way this was written, its lovely.
By the way there's an unnecessary apostrophe in the word 'disinterest'
By the way there's an unnecessary apostrophe in the word 'disinterest'