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Sam Stillhere..

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Member Since: Jul, 2008

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The Balcony
by Sam Stillhere..
Wednesday, August 06, 2008
Rated "G" by the Author.
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When trying to put this together it went on and on and on..... For many months I changed and tweaked this around but to be honest with you in the end I just had enough.
So this is how it ended up being put to bed.
Enjoy my never finished poem below!

 The Balcony


If I had a balcony, with long Mediterranean looking vines lazily lowering there darkening green leaves.  Families of grapes, grandparents, aunts, uncles, children, all tightly knitted, bound together, growing, suffocating, clawing at one another to unite, becoming one.

A single elderly cane rocking chair, scratched and worn with age and unappreciated over usage on those long, lazy evenings, which seem to always stretch into blood red sky dawning’s.

An empty bottle of wine cast aside with an exquisitely cut wine glass, half drunk or half full.

Long tall cactus plants with evil, demon sharp needles, casually dotted across infertile looking green stumps, existing in small, squat looking clay pots.

Ceramic leaves lazily thrown, to be left sickenly stranded on to the sides of these dull looking, dead colored demon holders, standing on fake rustic looking Greek ceramic tiles.  Moss slowly growing, like the slowing of a heart beat, in-between the precious life giving lines.

To gently lean against a tall, ornate iron railing, Victorian welded joints rusting with age, whilst peering, quietly, un-noticed, into the lives of the many who pass below.

Would this make me a different women…

A Mediterranean women, standing tall, standing proud without a merest glimpse of English haughtiness around.

Skin all dusky, no milky white.  Coal black, shiny hair caressing, with the slightest of whisper, such elegant dove like shoulders, then onwards, to end with one long, wavy curl gently laying itself to rest.

A thought provoking once popular paperback novel in one hand, written by a long dead Spaniard who survived the civil war with many an interesting tale to tell, sadly, with time, these becoming the mumblings of a fishermen’s yearn.

Such elegant arms coated with the finest downing of baby hair, unseen but so obviously having to be there.

Long, slender legs, delicate ankles, with those long family given feet, could this possibly be me.

The arm of that elderly, cane rocking chair seeming to gently envelop a, once again, perfectly formed, resting long fingered milky white hand, gently grasping a half drunk or half full wine glass.

A leg casually crossing the other, foot gently swaying, delicate mouth quietly humming an old, well known family tune, mind at peace, at rest.

Head slightly leaning back, the mind a thick sponge eagerly soaking up the sounds of life from below.

Is this myself in the depths of a wine steeped dream, or is there a possibility that this actually could be me.

Or should this balcony of my dreams, this inner women of my thoughts stay just that, a thought, a dream, a feeling of something that will never be.

European women, awake, without thought there’s no chance of this being even rampantly conceived.

So, knowing this, I’ll just quietly carry on being me, I live, I breath, I exist, I am one of the many looked down upon from whoever up high.

Up high, where the wine carry’s on flowing throughout the dawning’s and dusks of old father times births or deaths. Things up there, they keep on growing and the people, they just keep on showing…






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