You take out your blade
and cut down the clouds.
Their softness a blight
in your hard edged world.
You collate all the bridges
and you set them a burning.
Until everything's destroyed
but their rusted-out bones.
You drag the singing bird
down from the cloudless sky.
Its feathered beauty, stretched
and ragged in your idle hands.
You judge the nods and winks
as evidence of your belonging.
A cracked glaze on a broken pot
that leaks, and spills, and stains.
You think it is just beginning,
the tide rolling in and carrying
your long awaited ship in its swell.
You do not see the rocks you made.
And you can straighten the cushions,
put on the kettle, and bake a fine cake.
But your house is barren, and the path
to your doorway is covered in thorns.
Written for The Sunday Whirl - using all of the words.
A strange and bitter tale arose out of these words for me this week. I 'got' the first two lines and just went from there.