I like to get lost in words,
in the lush lines of prose,
the lingering liberation of free verse,
poetry.
Each letter a rosary bead,
possesses its own note,
as tobacco,
in a blue bottle of perfume,
nuanced, warm, stingy;
the code for describing,
lovers on an mid-autumn evening,
drinking black coffee.
But the anthology of words,
capturing my heart whole,
are the small, lace journals,
wrapped, in thumb worn, brown leather,
in the back of a little drawer, sound asleep,
hidden from the world.
Trace a finger along the spine,
open them to a maze
upon maze of letters-
paragraphs-thoughts-dreams-events;
my life, all swathed,
in thumb worn, brown leather.
I write them. leave them. read them
months, years later,
losing myself in, my own mid-autumn evenings,
and word worthy moments of my existence.
Why?
For I am able to say, “look how far I've come."
Dec 12, 2012
Dec 12, 2012 at 7:50 AM UTC
I like to get lost in words,
in the lush lines of prose,
the lingering liberation of free verse,
poetry.
Each letter a rosary bead,
possesses its own note,
as tobacco,
in a blue bottle of perfume,
nuanced, warm, stingy;
the code for describing,
lovers on an mid-autumn evening,
drinking black coffee.
But the anthology of words,
capturing my heart whole,
are the small, lace journals,
wrapped, in thumb worn, brown leather,
in the back of a little drawer, sound asleep,
hidden from the world.
Trace a finger along the spine,
open them to a maze
upon maze of letters-
paragraphs-thoughts-dreams-events;
my life, all swathed,
in thumb worn, brown leather.
I write them. leave them. read them
months, years later,
losing myself in, my own mid-autumn evenings,
and word worthy moments of my existence.
Why?
For I am able to say, “look how far I've come."