When the earth turned the page

Do you remember the days
when the sky would stretch itself to cover us?

We walked gingerly through dew covered trees,
our silhouettes kissed with sunlight.

We were stars blooming out of flowers,
we had the night on our trail.

We had left behind our older selves
in trains that had parked themselves in forgotten sheds,
and in cafes where the radio hissed between
songs crooned by a woman with a voice
that seemed as if it was dipped in thick honey.
Maybe a spoonful too much.

We had left behind our shallower minds,
we were trampling over the anguish of the umbilical cord severed with finality.

We kicked away the buckets of synchronized noise,
buried the order that had beset us.

We were free.

Free to let drops of madness seep into our skin.
Drops that had floated in the air for years.

And we walked out into the colourless blanket of darkness,
leaping off the shoulders of the city.

That night,
we splashed into the earth,
disturbing its melancholy stillness.

Our words had taken wing,
our poems had sprouted from cracks near the cliff.

The idols had been broken,
the missiles dissolved.

The sword had been slaughtered.

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