At one point,
I was a basin,
carved from stone and molten steel,
covered in ash.
And rain slipped in,
mixing in with the soot and dirt,
all over my cracking skin.
I became a canvas.
And then you came along.
With your brushes and pens.
Writing it all off,
like it maybe meant something.
But you spoke in softer syllables
than all the storms before.
Your quiet little whispersfired off like gunshots in my ears.
Cataclysmic events,
that cracked the basin in half,
rattled inside my skull,
like trench fire.
Somewhere between the end,
the hollow bullets that conclude,
and the falsified beginnings,
the ones I wrote about in dreams,
you slipped in,
and spilt your paint all over me,
running away the soot and ash,
the stones and molten steel.
Gabriel,
ReplyDeleteYou are among my favorite contributors to the Fredonia campus writing community. After skimming several different poetry/writing blogs, yours is the only one that made me want more.
Please continue writing. I would love to read your texts as you improve your abilities and develop your style.
I know you well enough to guess that your humility won't keep you from pursuing publication. I really do hope you continue to push your talents forward. Modern literature would benefit from you, and you could very well profit from your works.
Love,
Your Secret Admirer