TheTowerUnknown

these little white seeds i plant deep in the soil of my stomach will grow with time into an extravagant flower of release, petaled with freedom idiotic.

here he was in his room, and he opened the dragon's mouth of his window, blown away by the blast of heat, loving it, roasting in warmth. He breathed it in like a wine, like dandelion wine, the summer all in a bottle like Bradbury said. Dandelion wine wasn't the only way to bottle summer, though. He sat on his bed, old-styled tape-recording phone on the nightstand next to it. The drawer under it opened and the menagerie of old years shuffled about together, marked and dated with their business appointments and dentist's reminders... His hand went for the shuffle and pulled out a certain tape, one that made his heart flutter. He'd marked it

His ringtone rose with shrill pierce and his heart sank straight through indigo black depths—he picked up the phone. "hello?" "I'm here." Cold, so cold. "I'll be out in a bit." Emotionless, emotionless. He trembled all over, shaking like a tree in thunderstorm highs with lightning flinging out his eyes, spitting and cracking, lighting up all it spread over and burning whatever it met. Garage door. Her car lights were dappled about the dark room. Screen door, outside door. She was leaning against the car. He hated her. He hated her. "how are you?" "Okay." "Stay that way." "Whatever," he so very wanted to say. How his tong

I've never heard the trees speak often; do you know, it takes them eight days to seize the chance & say hello! (as you might imagine, their leaves aren't troubled beyond the oh-so -very important subjects.) Lately, these last months, i have learned how (in their flow of speech) to declare love, pleased with utmost purity, as an undefiled trove of meaning. The rest of my days are teased of their destined cost unless spent reciting over and over to you those meladic phrases i was taught by the trees.

it was warm, and it was dark. Wind swirled elegant between the sprawling branches amid brushes of fir that leaped high above them. Or him. All of his thoughts went out to the other, but weren't received, as there were none to receive them; his lips brushed the cool air in a whisper, but no words escaped. Alone in a forest, all he could think of was the other who should've been present, most definitely should have been present, and yet she was so distant, and between them rested an impenetrable wall of ice... he sighed, as if attempting to melt it. and again the words drilled softly from his mind and from his lips, and he slowly wrapp

VI. There's a sound that scares you When you're small, and it's the sound That rushes through the trees and right through Your front room door— and it's like having you around. It's chaotic, my trying to reach the two Of us today; if I could reach in and stroke The tightly wound Falls of your hair— My heart would rend and just To be fair, They'd give me someone else's heart So I don't. And (though it remains In the air of my mind, just quietly Asks) it's an art. Another day, a day not today, My four chambers will be heart- y enough to embrace you.

i've a solution; i will knit a warm sweater for my chilled spirit

Let us not be buried… if anything, one to remain above and to pull the other out like a hurried Ritual of broken alcoves & Collapsed The waters seem lukewarm My dearest, and they are, your body roves And is closed round about with a silent storm and How long, how long…? Test the waters, wait a while on this shore of Sand I'll tell myself That it's only goodbye for a while. I guess you'll be on the shelf, Make sure your spine is not reviled But how long until your wel- -fare Is come home again, undefiled? Sleep soundly, my love… My hand is here, my heart Is here so take hold when woven And unwoven you

Wind brushed the trees, like the tool of an excited artist. The air was warm and familiar, sticking lightly on their skin, belonging as much as the sky belonged with the sunset adorning it, as much as the people belonged with each other. And there's something about summer evenings like those that draws the souls within together, regardless of their inclinations... They knew it as well as the fireflies their light-- they knew it when their eyes met. Crystal and ringing, vivid recreations of the sunset- those were their eyes. Grasshoppers clicked into flight, late with the lightning bugs and the frogs far in the distance, rushing their