“A poet is a nightingale, who sits in darkness and sings to cheer its own solitude with sweet sounds.” -Percy Bysshe Shelley
Monday, January 13, 2020
Scripted
Found some handwriting
it took forever to decipher
as my own,
with large open loops
and smooth sweeping strokes
outside the lines,
I read
plain as day, black on white,
set as granite
between these boulders
where I have been pinned
and slowly
squeezed into thinking
I must fit
failing
to recognize
how shallow
my breath had become
how tiny and whispered
my words were,
I take in less and less
of what is essential to live.
I do not recognize the freedom
of thought,
for a moment
things shifted,
weight-
and I saw myself
scratched out.
Image credited by 'Theory and Practice of handwriting' c. 1894 in Public Domain.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
Half-dozen Mud cakes
Back to wood decks, quarter-size spiders, webs, moss and creatures stirring in the hollow nights Back to no side-walks and skirting into th...
-
1. Of my Soul a street is: Preternatural Pic- abian tricktrickclickflidk-er garner of starfish Picasso...
-
I have served between eight and twenty-five thousand meals for my family, I make coffee for them more than once per day, equatin...
-
Lies About Love by D.H. Lawrence (1885-1930) We are all liars, because the truth of yesterday becomes a lie tomorrow, wherea...
No comments:
Post a Comment