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Stranger |
I walk in a different land, and my peculiar sustenance would wither your flesh. A different moon shines an alien light on my strange hair. My tread falls on an earth that speaks in a language of tiny creatures that have no truck with the pill-bugs and centipedes that occupy your soil. My sky and yours are divided by a great wall, and do not mix. The colors I see are not the same colors that you see. My tongue tastes flavors that cannot be measured by your instruments. I hear sounds in my ears that comfort me; the same sounds would terrify you. The voice of my mother would bring hard rain from your clouds. If I raised my hand to the sun of your land, my shadow would grow blood-purple crystals in the center of your mind. If you were to stop looking into my eyes right now, it would be best.
copyright 2013
David
Scriven |
