“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 polish. Show all posts
Showing posts with label polish. Show all posts
Thursday, March 16, 2017
Rough drafts
Those screams are breathing
And if this is polishing
it is abrasive.
Artwork by Franciszek Żmurko c. 1896 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...
