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kara-rose-trojanPoems
We encountered a white-tiled wall whose             purity lingered behind earthly browns,            salmon, grass, lavender acrylic paint. And this frozen scene chilled like hot breath on winter             glass, soil-mixed dividing stories of young, smiley-touched             girls whose hair was flaxen hills in             the country and whose             eyes were opalescent azures whose opalescence             was truly the only sign of thought beyond a             glassy grin. Porcelain doll made of giggles and bubbles. She fanned her fingers in a glorious sky and leaf peacock-feathered exuberance and pawed at the dry, gritty scene of a sailboat floundering towards a sunset. She sees this world feelingly – one touch, two touch Her smile is prayer-folded hands extending across her own little world A prayer for this textured caricature of a little girl,             a happy puppet stuck until dark,             like the form the woman she’ll soon become             with her child-like fingers spidering across the stories she hopes to [but never will] tell. Her dusty hands against the comforting tinge of a watermelon’s epicenter.             So pink, so raw, so vulnerable with the valor of another brush’s turn.
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May 31, 2012
May 31, 2012 at 7:11 PM UTC
Movement Break
We encountered a white-tiled wall whose             purity lingered behind earthly browns,            salmon, grass, lavender acrylic paint. And this frozen scene chilled like hot breath on winter             glass, soil-mixed dividing stories of young, smiley-touched             girls whose hair was flaxen hills in             the country and whose             eyes were opalescent azures whose opalescence             was truly the only sign of thought beyond a             glassy grin. Porcelain doll made of giggles and bubbles. She fanned her fingers in a glorious sky and leaf peacock-feathered exuberance and pawed at the dry, gritty scene of a sailboat floundering towards a sunset. She sees this world feelingly – one touch, two touch Her smile is prayer-folded hands extending across her own little world A prayer for this textured caricature of a little girl,             a happy puppet stuck until dark,             like the form the woman she’ll soon become             with her child-like fingers spidering across the stories she hopes to [but never will] tell. Her dusty hands against the comforting tinge of a watermelon’s epicenter.             So pink, so raw, so vulnerable with the valor of another brush’s turn.
kara-rose-trojan
Written by
kara-rose-trojan
American
May 31, 2012
May 31, 2012 at 7:11 PM UTC
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