imagery

had this image in my mind a few years ago. it eventually became a poem. maybe i'll share it one day; i'm one of those who know they write sucky poems but enjoy reading their own work haha

Somewhere in time there's a town in the middle of a sandy country. Imagine a quiet town, where the only movement you can imagine is the shafts of sunlight forcing perspiration out of your dry pores. Sure, occassionally, there's wind, but what wind you find blows sand into your tearless eyes.

Today the air is so still.

On either side of the semblance of a road you see old wooden buildings, stained by the sand and the sun, the kind of buildings you see only in westerns. In fact you can imagine a stately man with a statelier moustache, in denim jeans and riding a brown-white horse coming trot-a-trot up to the porch with the little wooden sign over it. You can imagine the sign shaking slightly as he slams the door shut behind him, leaving the road empty again.

And the flower is alone again.

Look closely and you may be able to see the dew on the blood-red petals, the almost pulsating veins in the leaves, the stem that shivers like a living thing. Look deeper and you may be able to see his heart, and the way his hand grasps the rose. You may be able to see the throbbing of his chest and the longing in his eyes. He's not moving, not at the moment at least.

So the scene is set, the canvas is stained, and the song is written.

But suddenly with a subtle shift in the harsh dyes the boy turns to look down the road. You look too and you see nothing wrong; just the same old sand. But as the boy you feel - you feel your muscles suddenly tense, you feel your breath being held, you your heartbeat pounding like something trapped. In the moment you glanced to the side you felt the anger, you felt the cutting, cutting heat of hate, and the thorn cut deep into your frightened palm.

I could feel it coming.