Draft 3: Where the streets have no name

The alarm clock falls with a 'ding' and a 'crack' on the dark floor. 3:47 am it reads.

She sighs in usual anticipation of a sleepless night. Only 3 hours of sleep and apparently the house tells her it's enough. A slight whispering breeze floats in, feeling like some kind of soundless chime, echoing some distant meaning.

It beckons her to her window. No stars. Just streetlights, and little boxes of light from other sleepless rooms. While cars of big proportions seem to sleep so soundly under porches. The envy.

All of a sudden, she can't remember if she's been living here for long. There's a certain familiarity with the unfamiliar. "The consistency of the manufactured," she calls it. It's always been here in a way, and yet it takes no colour from our presence.

How is it so empty, when it's so full of our things, our precious things? With her head hung low, she tries to ponder on a window jamb. No moon to light the darkness of silhouettes even.

Draft 2: Where the streets have no name

"Run, run, run" , said the house.

"Run, from the haste of making dreams out of lies. Run, from the desire to shrink and shirk histories from the grains of your heart. Run from me, for I am but a one in a thousand, just some 'concept' derived from man's greed for purpose."

"For I am alone, and those who dwell in me become aliens to their own sinews, their very own hearts."

And the streets, they ran around her in a spiral, not so centred after all but on a trail, still...to a vacuous continent we call, space.

The papers call them homes with a green lawn.

Draft: Where the streets have no name

What windows have we?
those without curtains of dreams,
those devoid of mystery,
or the crumbs of history...

...and...
one wonders if the world looks in,
instead of us looking out through them,
if indeed the world gazes,
into the abyss of our hollow spirits.

Under roof lines,
these windows,
one and all...the same,
under the guise of some manic desire
to control meaning.

Muse: Drops

The night sky,
collects rain from the stars,
into pockets of hope,
we call light.

And light eternal,
guides boats drifting on dreams,
always too fast,
ending too soon.

Goodbye,
today ends,
tonight begins,
the veil drops.

Muse: Only the sun knows

Did you not see?
The clouds sailing on high?
Suspended by hopes unbegotten...

Only the sun knows now...
That moment...
God composed a scene for me...
As blood trickles from His wounds to the ground.

Muse: Super flumina Babylonis?

and...
When you think of it,
after a while,
we don't have to say goodbye's,
it's places that have to.

By the rivers of Babylon,
I waited, waited for goodbyes
but realized i didn't need to.

I needn't because,
I can't say goodbye to myself.

These were my memories
and the others never held it.

Ghosts, everywhere...

Prose: The sun of my heart

How do you capture an entire phrase...spoken? What did you see? Where did you go? In one blink of an eye, where were we? A glass of water, it sits by the window, and the ripples echo, memories still leaving, trying to leave the prison of water, we call it life.

Escaping, trying to escape... like my words. I can't tell you how intense the heat or the rain is, if you keep standing in the shade. But if you could leap with me into a pit, where could those dreams take us?

What I mean to say is...Do you see, what I see?
The sun...the sun.