Vividly. (19.4.26)

Exploration

New forms

New combinations.

.

New bounds

For capturing beauty

Motion

Emotion.

.

Imagining process and creation

Its own delight

Even as the eyes arrange what they see

World of fantasy

.

What is it that others see

In this beauty?

.

Vivid

Touch, Taste

.

Tantalizing

Texture

.

Bright

Joyful

Real.

When She Looks At Me. (18.2.25)

The woman – perhaps?

The woman in the mirror.

When she looks at me.

.

A passing glance,

or a laugh.

Forced or true.

.

Mocking wet eyes,

angry crystallized sadness.

.

If

the image is distorted

When she looks at me

despaired.

Then

When she looks at me

soaring,

Is it too?

.

.

It’s not a mirror in my mind I see,

when I think of me.

Something more of an ideal,

mix past and future, maybe,

and pure, force of will

applied to sense of self

.

The woman in the mirror,

when she looks at me,

it’s not that me I see.

.

.

The image of me I see

I wonder

if anyone other sees

.

perhaps if it is not

the distortion is not my mind

but yours.

Quiet Deafens. (19.3.18)

Standing still after a shower, sensations of water running down your skin.

Listening to the click and pop of an open soda sitting next to you.

Listening to millions of tiny snowflakes hitting the ground around you.

The rush of wind, of cars, of heartbeats.

.

Quiet is loud, sensation is strong,

When you tune in.

They take over all in the end.

When will you tune in?

The Woman Dipped In Ink. (19.2.12)

Red dress. Black dress. White dress.

White dress, black flowers, red petal tips.

She drifts through the world. Rain pelts the glass in fat, running droplets as she watches. Their streams distort light, views through the window. Inside, and out.

Her fingertips trail down the pane. Longing, loneliness in her eyes.

Ink seeps from her. Constant, viscous, pooling. From her fingertips, heels, hair, tear ducts, it seeps and runs from her, pooling in places, sticking in others. Reflecting slick highlights.

As she drifts, the ink runs like tears around her. It fills her footsteps, dissipating in rain and evaporating into black stains in the sun. It’s left dark and unseen on anyone she touches, without her knowing. It bubbles up through the skin at her throat, sliding down her chest through her dress’s weave without leaving trace, but marking the whole world around her.

The rain is a mild, warm background noise in a cold city, accompanying her tapping footfalls as she walks through the alley slow, barely feeling the rain. The edges of petals on her soaked, summery dress the only spots of color in the scene.

Soaked in experiences turned potential, is this

Her beginning or her end?

She walks, a lifetime of untold stories no longer contained, flowing away from her in fine rivulets.