a red torment sears through her. air that makes her tired tired tired Until locked as words on stone. flowers on Sundays, breakdowns in June.
ODE TO INK
You lustrously eat through the stationary leaving bridges of ideas behind. You wearily weave thought and feelings into the blank page. Afraid of the limits that we will perceive, yet after all this, you complete your job as the incoherent transmitter. The eastern winds will smear your subject of intent into the starless quaking ground. The matter of creation that never stops creating eloquent notes.
Idyllwild Arts Academy Student Literature/Art Magazine 2009-10