Sour Crayons

My hands are tree-minded twigs
twiddling wooden thumbs; pencil-
fingers scratching pulpy paper;
pushing letters single-file into
lingual constructs.

I am revisiting recurring childhood
dreams; thoughts of stone tumbling
themselves shiny and sleek; oils of
voices, tranquil and frictionless,
reflecting rainbows when mixed with
the water of conversation; rivers of
synergy flooding behind dams.

Now I live with disconnection and
disassociation, dripping into every
relationship, dull or sharp; cutting
vocal cords to make room for audio
wires carefully wrapped in swirling
curls.

I taste memories of sour crayons,
their colors defining their savory
sting.  Chew on this stubble; strewn
about, leaving a small trace of
visions of a time long before now;
living tales of ancestry, linking
steps in a spiraling ladder
defining each individual.

And now, with the exception of
purpose, and the denial of the sun,
we make our farewells.





[23:09|12.9.011] ©c.thomas.carter