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Pacing with ink spilling from my fingers,
the day is slowing.
I reach hesitantly, yearning, and find a trace of you there.
Clocklike eyes that chime so sweetly in silence
whose branches which I find refuge during snowy showers.
(To find a rose blooming from a crack in the frozen blue)
Noble heart…the dripping of springs marks the seasons.
Dripping like rain for some,
Chinese water torture for others…
perhaps the elephants too.
They need water,
but never seem to have enough at once.
Oh but how soothing is the loving face,
unaltered by Time's sweeping artist's brush.
Thoughts like pebbles worn by a river's heart
drip as wax unto midnight sunshine of the candle
(which is held aloft, in prayer and veneration)
as one idly yearns for the morning star.
The ball of yarn we tangle in with unsheathed claws,
freezes and melts in hues of blue and red…
frozen flakes, bleeding roses; then wailing oceanic sorrow, angry petals,
(-so that the palette never results the same as thus before-)
…intermittently, as is the human heart.
Oh but how beautiful are the seemingly discordant melodies
to an ear once rendered deaf.
Hanging by a thread (our last), precariously balanced on a dew claw
(we forgot we had)
all is heightened by rosy pieces of glass we find on sidewalks.
We are held so, in a sense of wonder…allure.
A faint and sweeping colour we strive to place with a word,
reaching into written words and desperately tearing out our thoughts -
birds that were captured long ago by the pens of explorers,
(for it was a New World then…)
Set them free (they're wild things..)
…or perhaps yet,
leave them be, symbols of all we are.
if you speak them, dear one,
their wings will be pinioned,
as shall yours.
What use is a bird without wings?
To sing the memories of flight?
Take away its feather, one solitary feather,
and it will be grounded.
Slowly floating down...
Is it possible to move?
on so thin a line between earth and ground,
air and vacuum?
Perhaps only in dreams…
where 'lines' are only vaguest of shells of our character…
separating blindness from the deaf..removed with a warm breath
of a pendulum.
But with our feathered friends for company
as with the looming clouds,
would we ever want to leave?
If we close our eyes,
we can fly.
Whispers of breath linger on pastels,
slowly melting into the thin fabric between flesh and canvas..
the artist wishing to weave patterns of her dreams unto her hands.