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The state has no control over it’s affairs. The buildings crumble; abandoned ruins left to battle wind and rain.  Sand blasts once proud ivory tours.  The occupants are a mystery contemplated on by scholars yet to study them.

I think I had a home here once.  I can remember ribbons made of red and gold, soft perfumed breezes, kisses on cheeks.  I remember polite conversation and moments of romance.  I remember passion.  Sometimes when I look into your eyes I think you must remember them too, but then like the barren landscapes we left behind your eyes have no tales left to tell.

I want you back, I want me back.  I want my small hand in yours and your cheek pressed against mine.  I want dances. I want small kisses.

I wave it away.  I speak to you of not letting me drink.  I say, ” you see, the memories are full of intoxication. I cannot hold them back”.  You laugh and pour me more.  I think you enjoy the designs I make in the sand.  I think you wish you could make them too.

There are dreams so real it makes the day hours painful to walk in.  Sometimes I wish to lock them away.  The darkness is full of monsters, the daylight is full of painful revelation.

The state has no control over it’s affairs.  Everything crumbles. Everything needs rebuilding.  There are no more temporary fixes or measures. Glue is not enough.

The sun casts shadows that threaten to catch me in their wake.  I dance between long forms and short comings, and pray to find safety between the cracks.

About Trish Noble

Trish Noble. Dreamer. Writer. Artist. Thinker. Ponderer. Observer. Spouter of Opinions.

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