Litkicks Message Board Archive


Posted to Poetry

The angels envy us
even crumpling a piece of paper

we tumble like
a speck of dust
caught in a ray of light

our physical eye-lids
are so easy to open
compared to the transparent grey ones
we develop as we grow old

I stand before a window
razor in hand
and cut the dull membrane away

I'm astonished by the redness
of the blood on my hands

Those grey beings
will call me mad.