From head to toe
personified words,
stories shown in still pictures.
Highlighted reels
of over-played moments
I treasure most.
Black and white
trying
not
to fade.
Behind my ear a flower would grow.
My neck and chest untouched,
my heart plays rhythmic melodies.
Being alive is art on its own.
My back would extend wings,
curving around my ribs.
My breaths would carry me
higher than the wind.
My hips would crescendo waves.
My legs would be aged trees.
One full of leaves,
the other bare carrying only branches.
My ankles
would weave meticulous roots
intended for the trees.
I would stand for something,
without wavering.
Grounded,
existing, singing,
flying, floating,
becoming a piece of art.
I bare no tattoos.
I can’t.
So, I write.

Like this:
Like Loading...
Leave a Reply