I spent five minutes every day for one week brainstorming words that sounded good. At the end of the week I chose my favorite words and put them together to make sentences. Somewhere in there a story emerged about a schizophrenic woman who left messages for herself on her message machine.
Beyond a sacred shower of never-ending snow
lies her blinking green message machine whose meaning she does not know.
She listens to each message from her purple rocking chair, though she fails in her attempt to solve the mystery that’s there.
She sings herself a quiet song.
Even if we stuff our message in a bottle and throw our bottle in the sea,
the meaning of those messages will still be known to me.
Even if we hide our heart from strangers and dub our enemies our friends,
We’ll never escape the meaning that we create within.
She checks that green box daily, just hoping that with time
all the voices within that box will turn into silent mimes.
The voices keep on coming until that sunny day when the phone stops making calls
and the messages go away.
[She sings herself...]
Blankets of snow with nowhere to go
Children whose eyes show no surprise
Fathers and sisters, mothers and aunts
And hundreds and hundreds of unwanted rants
[Even if we stuff...]
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