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Walking On The Clouds (4th March 2006)
SCS (17th August 1988 / Solihull)

Walking On The Clouds (4th March 2006)

Poem By Sarah Capella Smith

I step off the motorway into a castle of white clouds.
The black birds lift out the black bricks in the turrets
Like notes in the perfect score.
Like angles, fairies and cherubs my footsteps are light and bare.
The sky before me stretches red -
Like the cross cut in my left arm. Like my bloody iris.

My plump heart rains out. Red apple; full and tender.
Touching the clouds, white rings form around my wrists
Like timeless watches.
Like the colour of a dragonfly’s wings, a purple sea stills below.
To the sides of me floods sapphire -
Like a blue vampire hugs me. Like curtains of velvet.

The coldness raises my filament thin veins. It is beautiful.
My fingers are pink and old, my knuckles are mountain tops
Like the salts of life emerging.
Like flowers in full bloom my palms spread with a truth exposed.
The gold gates wade open -
Like they had been waiting for me. Like I’d made my decision.

I collapse and fall, the tears rolling down my hot, red checks.
Make it rain! Plunge the Earth with thunder! It still isn’t spring!
Like the way day won’t turn into night.
Like there’s a padlock around my voice box, I cannot thank Him,
Yet. Here I am -
Like I always shall be. Like I always shall be.

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Comments (1)

collapse and fall, the tears rolling down my hot, red checks. Make it rain! Plunge the Earth with thunder! It still isn’t spring! Like the way day won’t turn into night. the bittter quackness, made of imageries made me to write like this The snow white words and deep verse of art of love of life and a pervade of madness...fingers are pink...real fuuny images it rain! Plunge the Earth with thunder! It still isn’t spring! Like the way day won’t turn into night. the bittter quackness, made of imageries made me to write like this I collapse and fall, the tears rolling down my hot, red checks. Make it rain! Plunge the Earth with thunder! It still isn’t spring! Like the way day won’t turn into night. the bittter quackness (I feel it while reading) , imageries made me to write like this


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