SnowIt was an undiluted morning when,Snow by neonxaos
slits for eyes and toes in the cold,
I reached for the sheets we shared,
found them all too clean and empty,
like she had never been at all.
Awakened by the icicle cyclone
ripping my rib cage apart,
I started drawing conclusions
like a madman does delusions.
Had she gone to feel the breeze
fingering her hair like a frigid lover?
Had she put on her sturdiest boots
but forgotten to warm the blood?
Did she call out in the wilderness
with only a human voice?
Had she tested the strength of the lake
and spidered her doom at her feet?
The final seconds before they found her,
I woke and felt what blossomed cold,
covering the human vessel
no longer melting the snow.
OuroborosMan walking the ropes of the ring
like a straggler, cut out and inserted,
like a collage, ripped out and reverted,
inconceivably, superimposed onto life,
like a texture, ripped and converted into
resources, mapped onto models, cut
from geometry, rigged to dance like
digital mirror ballet, meant to mimic
words and letters that convey the sweat and
bone-splintering blows of a sport born from
battles and bruises and legends, masked
as truth and labeled history, the song
of time as taught from mouth to ear and
conveyed by ever-changing meat and bone
as gospel, as if our being truly resonated with
the fabric of the universe, revealing the face
of creation in all its glory, as if anything
could be the final layer of anything, and
as we dig into the deepest dark, we finally find a
man walking the ropes of the ring.
Ink, paper, fimo, wood, pumpkins, soap, candles...of late attempting to improve my graphic arts skills. No sketching/drawing/painting talent whatsoever, to my great frustration.|
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