What a rich tapesty you weave! I love this piece Jo.
I don't care what VampireWitch says, your writing isn't crap!
I second that. ;)
..there's are day, quite a few of them, in fact, when I wished I wrote more like you.
..then again, it's taken me years to write like me. So, I'll just admire a damn good writer.
A distant gaze comes to mind here...looking far away for a better sight.
I did not say that. O.O Otter.... you going to get me in trouble.
I love you and I have said as much,
Willing sincerity onto my features
As they melt like wax beneath the heat
Of your scrutiny once again.
I have felt my soul grown gaunt
Like the cheeks of an old woman
Who bends her back and draws her coat
In at the throat with thin, veined hands.
No dust settles along these shelves
Of empty-eyed dolls that line the walls,
The walls, white as the screams
In the earthquake of my long-calm features.
When your breaths deepen the night,
I keep my step light and steal away
To those who delight in me, shadows
Secret and sleek as a crow's oiled wings.
Could it all have been lost on you
Who thickened the air and pulled at my hair,
Daring light to linger along the edges of things;
How long will I feel you grabbing at my heel?
But this afternoon, my skirt rustles with breeze,
My rusty mind bends to a sleeping dog's whine,
Stretches and arches like a great cat, awake at last.
Earth covers your face and a seedpod blows past my shoe.
They're not paint; vibrant with pigments, textures and strokes. They play no notes, allow no bending of the strings, percussive crescendo nor sobbing of violins. There is no expressive movement of body, no skyward leaps nor slump to the stage. They're only words; collections of symbols interpreted as sounds, experienced with the ear, the throat and the tongue. Infatuated in the mastery, the mouth and the mind become a mixed playground: colors, sensations, textures, motions and emotions.
Perhaps the greatest tragedy would be to fully grasp an understanding of how mere words can be sculpted into a pure art form through the pen of a practiced master. Does the awe lie within the mystery or does it swell with understanding? I know not which. I know only that this is art of the highest caliber and the artist, to be listed, must be placed aside the greats.
You control my very breath.
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