Thursday, September 11, 2008

Shimmering Eyes

There are even stories and there are odd stories.
Here's an odd one.
The rhythm and rhyme, even.

There was a special shimmer in her eyes.
It was the kind that brightened up the skies.
That cold, rainy morning in December,
The start of day I'd die to remember.
I couldn't figure out what I had missed,
Before we said 'goodbye' and hugged and kissed.

It was in bed that night that I would learn,
A time of reckoning, my crash and burn.
I caught the glimmer of the knife she held,
Before it struck -- and then the flow of red!
There was that shimmer in her eyes that day,
The kind that took my very breath away.

The odd or even scheme.
Walking along Cecil Street, I saw a sign that directed people to use the elevators on the right if they were getting off at odd-numbered floors, and those on the left for even-numbered ones.
Then it hit me.

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