My Being

Composed: March 2, 2011 at 8:51pm

Each knuckle of joy that wraps itself into hands of apathy.

Dry lips that are caressed by a tongue, half alive.

Innocent palms, with calloused skin so soft that you would swear it was made with silk threads;

that weave in and out,

through and through,

until it is one piece of golden, polished, composed, and presentable substance.

Words that exit the mouth and the mind like letters on a typewriter;

phrases so unique the ears cringe at its unfamiliarity.

Sighs of warm hopeful breaths.

Eyes that flutter their lids when in fear.

She has a Smile that has outstretched and outgrown the digit that numbers her years

of 

living.

Naive.

Being.

And so she waits, and ponders and wanders until she finds a face that she can call home.

A place she can recognize.

She seeks

for

A smile

that lays just as outstretched as the dull one that hangs on her face,

hanging by a thread of silk; golden, polished, composed, and presentable.

And there she is content.

Children, oh you see how they play, not knowing that one day they will grow up.

Let us all be as children;

with outstretched smiles that have yet to outgrown the numbers of breaths we’ve lived.