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 Jun 2017 Laura Slaathaug
Lvice
She strips the oils
from her face
And applies the clay to canvas
Molding cheekbones
out of grounded stone
She puts her smile out
to dry
Her skin cracking like pottery
Little hands
breaking the mold
Becoming
what they said to never be
So instead they almost molded-
She recreates the scars in her skin
the foundation layered
the concrete  no longer wet
The space between ethereal measure,
  the nothingness connecting our divide.
This lack of substance is surreal, obscure
  are old memories of sharing your side.
Ours is the spirit, by which we are bound,
  a realm we share where timelessness persists.
Where shapeless planes carry a formless sound,
  the self becoming selfless, unresisting.
The place you’ve gone does not belong to me
  and in the space between us, seeds are sown.
The tree of life sways softly with the breeze
  while you continue, beyond what I know.
Like wings that carry over to another shore,
  you are my leaf on the wind. I see you soar.
Sonnet - 18 -
Original version: 27/09/15
This version: 23/03/17

I can share this now.

Dedicated to my Father.
I wrote this sonnet for him and read it at his funeral.

It explore's the experience of still feeling deeply connected to something that is no longer. Even after their death, people still affect you and change you. Pieces to a puzzle are still being put in their place as we mirror ourselves and our actions to what they might have done. We learn about ourselves and the world from these reflections.

On an even deeper level, this sonnet explore's the ethereal connections we have to our ancestors and the past. Observing that, what is lost to us will be reborn, through it's decay, feeding new growth. The cycle of life.

          "I am a leaf on the wind.
               Watch how I soar".
                                               - Wash, Firefly
oh you
the you shining brighter
then any sun
you must take this day
in memory
recall it
one day
long hence
for you have innocence
it is  not so bright
come September
unless on a
whim you can call it up
with that snap
of your fingers
red  paint lasts
what a day or two --
even the sky
ages into
horizons--
without
chipping?
I gave up once
and nothing changed
the world kept turning
the hyenas kept laughing
the buzzards kept feasting
the sun kept shining
and nothing was undone
so I changed myself
and
the world kept turning
the hyenas kept laughing
the buzzards kept feasting
the sun kept shining
and I kept living
which isn't too bad.
my thoughts are mixed up of present time
and words of poetry i have not yet written

I think of you but can only make it so far
before my mind creates a metaphor for
the emptiness that this small soul of mine
now is
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