Mediums And Olive Pits

Not paste, nor paint, nor poem could still or frame even the faint of your presence. An erratic mellow. A soft eager on the ladder of your neck and winged bones above your breasts. The hallow of drums echo less than your riddled tongue and curved words. It is in the deep of your irises. In the stare of your polished pupils. A constant. A consistence in your flight of thought. An unfiltered delicate in your pearled teeth and kept nails. You can never be touched or tamed or named by the words of men or the quills of my pen. These are simply attempts. Attempts to push your presence into paper. To paint you into a paused palette. Writing a map to the place you are still but without frames. An exposition in every etch. An erratic mellow as I sketch. A piece of time. A perfect rest. A symphony inside my chest. Be still my beating heart.

Joshua Tool – 12/22/2012


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