where I am, the edge of oblivion
blank, empty stare
you carry it in the palm of your hand
delicate music-maker, this filler of hours
without art, I couldn't imagine living
blank, empty stare,
its simmering anger boiling at the edges
that I see on your face
I know the edge
come back to those who love you,
love
Sheath of feeling. Words groping to touch air.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
Woman with Flowers 7.1
(7th sketch in series, first iteration of this one) Woman with Flowers Flowers, props upholding the woman. The flowers, fragrant, imaginar...
-
The Buddha says: “ You cannot travel the path until you have become the path itself .” The path is uncertain. Uncertainty is the guiding for...
-
What if relationships are the primary ordering principle? What if the way relationships are ordered clarify, explain, and instruct us on th...
-
"I hope you are all creating every day according to the inner map you were born with. I know it sometimes seems that map is written in ...
This Poetry conjures images of a shoreline on the sea or standing amidst an endless meadow.
ReplyDeleteProfoundly.
Blessings~