Page 60

Words From Chains As I differ words from chains crosspanes spin out of control. In one of which -- under looming sun -my kris fingers crack like a fractured crock; a façade of being a flexile toll. My bleached upper lips smell rotten in their fear of being framed, outed, exposed by the heat of burning oak under smoldering monumental tea pot. We stir that pot, stir it good so all the juices of our lives mix and merge; a pot-pourri of tastes. Then we pour it down our throats slowly, as not to burn by the intensity of being alive. I used to stare at this brooch of yours, that grandma-green below your neckline. I used to stare and think – this is not my love, this is us. These are these, and those are you. Now I differ, once again words from chains, words from chains. The sun still looms above our heads with crease-crossed skies -- we swore if you remember, not to forget -the fire still stands still, and you and me, and they… These are not wrinkles at the alcove of my fingers; this is me in the mirror of us, baring my fragility slowly, as not to blush. I used to stare at this brooch of yours, that mother-dearest fondness you so love. I used to stare and think – this is not us, this is what we think of us. This is you in us shadow. It's been a journey to relish on. Some words were dropped, some lines sunk in. We collected those, brewed and stirred, poured and swallowed, idealized, admired. A journey in a pot made crock, now differed words from chains. And as the split grew wide, grew broad the words grew long, and the chains chinked hard.

Words From Chains by OmriJ. Luzon

59

Walkingblind Magazine

WalkingBlind Art and Literature Magazine  

Opening the Mind's eye to art yet unseen!

Advertisement