lymantria dispar

dear diary, we are the caravan children and i will leave you by nightfall and float through thick shields, veils, membranes of defeat, of resignation, of unsurpassed beauty. we are the caravan children, a mirror cracking from side to side, promises worn like a crown of carnations. 

from dawn to dusk - a creaking carrige past victorian buildings, tall, coarse palaces draped in egyptian finery, moth eaten dresses covering legs and lamp shades, a collection of yellow stamps and faded postcards, violets, pharaohs, a venetian mask in a stranger's window, what does freedom taste like crystal what does it taste like to stay flying?

carried through the hour of the wolf we dream of dahlias - the slow strokes of a paint brush, crude oil, a linen canvas set to flames, distorted faces with serpent eyes lunging from the heat waves. we dream of violets - abandoned soldiers standing in line outside a stranger's apartment, heavy breathing, their smudged reflections in the moonlight, frosted glass, tainted, waiting for their call. what does freedom taste like when it was so reluctantly given? winter apples, warm cider, mud, clay, grime. we dream of peonies, of roses, of a venetian mask weeping shades of purple, soaring high in the sky.