Weather Prophet

In Memory of Mirror, Mask & Camera (where are you now and why does tumblr say "there's nothing here"?)


The wind delivers
Rain on window pane sorrow
We used to talk
About how love
Would help us storm tomorrow

This chisel blunt
Cannot set these days in stone
But statuesque
And sculptural we are not
This hammer jars to the bone

Nothing to hide
Nothing to push us through
these moments of inertia

Burns the core of the flame
Burns the faltering fingertips
With the reminder that we are we

We are not cameras
These tools are blunt and inexact
these snapshots exist
in >2 dimensions
They render real from filtered fact

Children are here
To Storm the walls of our defences
To break our hearts
Until we are dulled
Stripped down to our essences