Saturday, January 21, 2012


I stroke the letters of these sweet syllables as I erect the sleeping
prose Until it comes to life... These words in my head were seeds
planted under the richest earth...soiled under sheets of smudged
paper that smell of sex and liquor.

Words from a lover are the Word for a hopeless romantic libra.
The heavy ones cause my scales to tip. I RoCk uNbAlAnCeD.
But finally find equilibrium
when I slam a pen to a free flying strip of paper.

Prose, a colored feather, I weave into my free flying hair that
bends and swirls where it wants when it wants to do it. An extension
of myself. A medium for heightened senses. A release from the
confines of a tightly bounded hair tie.

Roses without thorns may not be roses at all, but impostures of
a sort and far more dangerous. The natural ones are often long
stem and wild. I stare at you funny when you hand me a striped
love symbol- naked roses.

You've entered into my greenhouse. And now my imperfections
are showing. Your prompted to examine my nature that looks so
perfect from a distance. A nature sprung from wild seed, lonely
moons, and unpurified water.

Cut at the stem, I'm analyzed through your lens. Under these bright
lights I am revealed, seen as you like, a stranger, a danger to
your health, poison as ivy. I look deep into the mirror, poised, under
vanity lights searching for my natural self.

photo © Sarah Klockars-Clauser
for CC:PublicDomain

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