when writing things i always have an image in my head wanting to come out


Landscape of a Writer

Residing in doubt,
As swirling lines dot across the page,

That the lines form into words
And create a life
They flow and meld into a landscape
Marred with hills
Studded 'i's branch into trees
And my hand stops.

Grey, darkening clouds gather
Releasing water that stains
The page and it runs into a moving torrent
Of black sorrow.
Curving 's's guide and hold
As it slows to a trickle.
Pen posed.

Meanings of erratic fire
Char and bite, flourishing destruction
Harsh 't's turn into crosses
And the poisoned sky glows hate
As ink bellows
Painting anger in gorgeous figures.
I slow and read the ruins.

Dry and empty, now cold
In deaths breath an evil
Stirs, a hollowed blizzard.
Frozen fingers are stiff
In the glittering night
While crisp is the ground
And fingerprints fade
The paper still healing.
Scarred.




Poetry by deathsdestiny
Read 705 times
Written on 2006-11-19 at 16:21

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