Word-Weaving
I wield a pen as my paintbrush, and I load it with sights, smells, and heavy ideas. With ink, I stretch the fabric of myself across a patient page.
I tell of small rooms darkened for comfort. I tell of angelic pigeons that flutter weightlessly on puffs of wind, their backs hot under feathers warmed from the searing sun. I describe clouds that tumble across one another; that swirl in eddies and churn up lightning as yellow as butter. Rainfall is not just for dancing, nor just for tears: jeweled rain plops on waxy leaves and drops into powdery dust, rolls from asphalt to call blind worms from muddy caverns, and rat-a-tats on vast lakes, teasing hungry fish whose silver sides snap through blue depths.
Stories of fear spill from my hand: stories of loss, stories of incessant pain that burns through hearts and leaves charred holes begging weakly for salve. I tell about lies coated with cream cheese frosting, not spoken to hurt, but to heal.
Words hold me in their grasps, working my trembling heartstrings and lodging fat frogs deep in my throat. Words on a page hold between their vowels powers great enough to shift stubborn minds and lift weary spirits.
Word-weaving is a craft, an art. I am an artist.
I tell of small rooms darkened for comfort. I tell of angelic pigeons that flutter weightlessly on puffs of wind, their backs hot under feathers warmed from the searing sun. I describe clouds that tumble across one another; that swirl in eddies and churn up lightning as yellow as butter. Rainfall is not just for dancing, nor just for tears: jeweled rain plops on waxy leaves and drops into powdery dust, rolls from asphalt to call blind worms from muddy caverns, and rat-a-tats on vast lakes, teasing hungry fish whose silver sides snap through blue depths.
Stories of fear spill from my hand: stories of loss, stories of incessant pain that burns through hearts and leaves charred holes begging weakly for salve. I tell about lies coated with cream cheese frosting, not spoken to hurt, but to heal.
Words hold me in their grasps, working my trembling heartstrings and lodging fat frogs deep in my throat. Words on a page hold between their vowels powers great enough to shift stubborn minds and lift weary spirits.
Word-weaving is a craft, an art. I am an artist.