She is a an insect, a creature of forlorn deceit.

Stringing along imaginary songs,

Of water, wind and sometimes someone.

I knew her once, not too long ago

She strung us along, it was like,

vertigo.

————————————-

You know, really, they were probably just doing the same:

They said we’d get there. So where? I asked. They said we don’t care. Just anywhere. Just anywhere.

They said some time we’d reach that point. So when? I asked. They said we don’t mind. Soon anytime. Soon anytime.

They hung themselves, out to dry. Old and odd, clothes colourful on the clothes line.

Drip Drip Dry.

Their memories sparkled out in the sun. Their dirt all washed out, so they were glorified, shining.

The quirky t-shirts and cotton pyjamas,  the silk scarves, the woollen socks, the sundresses, old jeans and the dress pants.

Threads stringing out from some. Into the next, the best, the rest.

That string of folksongs. All out to wait.

Not yet shrunk by thought machines. As yet unfaded, as yet unbled. Not quite bleached colourless and not quite the same.

At the whim of whims.

They smile, as their colourful selves hung out in the day, at night, in the rain, till the next, sunny cloudy day.

Drip Drip Dry.