game of thrones
Wednesday, December 28, 2011 8:20:am | History
Midnight or Their About's
It's only 1:00 pm on the back porch, sadness fall with his mood and the wood chips he whittles still, he whittles that peach branch until it smooth, brand new sitting barefoot on cold tractor seat stool his poppy made a long time ago thankfully lonesome, again
Billy holiday whispers a sad song on an old 45 playing over and over again filtering in from the living room his eyes follow the wind outside he moves to the music and swaying trees remembering the first time he heard that song In the French Quarter from his youth
He watchs the wood chips float and swirl through the ash gray plank of the decking 'see how the shaving spin like a top'
he folds up his knife to retire in his room to write poetry and sleep she knocks, respectfully to join him in his dreams is that wrong? he can't say, this whole thing might not be what she signed up for, or will she?
the room's quiet as a stone a mausoleum but for Billie Holiday slowly seeping in
I think maybe, you're going to be the one that saves me.
he sleeps, out of words but understanding, his gaze betrays his conviction not to think of the woman who is real, who latently longs for his affection when he most needs the truth
outside the wood chips dance in the yawn, but she is dancing in his dreams. CMH