“A poet is a nightingale, who sits in darkness and sings to cheer its own solitude with sweet sounds.” -Percy Bysshe Shelley
Showing posts with label other words. Show all posts
Showing posts with label other words. Show all posts
Sunday, April 8, 2018
id est (in other words)
The ink pot solidified
in the -unpreventable- evaporation
of
all things
considerable.
Words were
the only way we could try
to grasp the conceptual -framework-
of the time
it takes
to become
a person, place or thing.
Of late,
it is more common than not
to notice the disappearance of
what
seems -indescribable- where only by means
of observation
could we conserve our precious
resources.
Artwork by Hugo Charlemont in [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.
Subscribe to:
Comments (Atom)
White
Unopened mail on the counter, a meal half eaten sits on the table, fork frozen in position of the last bite. A world abandoned mid-sentence,...
-
Natures touch is both gentle and fierce. Homo sapiens trample on her back. The thick skin impossible to pierce. So...
-
A year ago this May, in fact, upon this same very grey day- something came over me I found could say, in no other way but to portray, ...
-
Water Today, warm raindrops glass blurs, the blurry glassy, sharp sparkles sugar. Behind Evening, it was good. Leaves all turned into shadow...
