Sunday on Sunday, 02 January 2011 at 15:13

Sitting in the grey warden

Hospital of trees with branches

full of wind and

roads burdened by black ice

forgotten snow

Thomping the thawing heaps

listening to the quickened

breath..no...it's.. the flock

of sparrows on the other side of the river in the

pine's grove



Alikeness of the grimaces

you put on the typewriter

now used as an instrument

for deliberate retrieving the feelings long gone

timbre of claspings

going stronger with the flow, going stronger with

the ticking.



Sitting in a dim lit

warden with soft steps

of the slippers' rhythm

things dusted

put in disorder

which aren't at all

an oblivion

all makes a perfect sense

Now when this moment

passes

comes another thread and

another



the pace of your eyelids

the mocking birds' wings

quickens and stops for

a while, the pattern which

loosens its syncopated

stone flow

And so the light is almost off but I'm still sitting

in the ward.