speaking with you is akin to swallowing wildfire.
Eyes like a storm; lips like the rolling winds.
“I think the man who designed this should have committed suicide. A man who can conceive a thing as beautiful as this should never allowed it to be erected. He should not want to exist. But he will let it be built, so that women will hang out diapers on his terraces, so that men will spit on his stairways and draw dirty pictures on his walls. He’s given it to them and he’s made it part of them, part of everything. He shouldn’t have offered it for men like you to look at. For men like you to talk about. He’s defiled his own work by the first word you’ll utter about it. He’s made himself worse than you are. You’ll be committing only a mean little indecency, but he’s committed a sacrilege. A man who knows what he must have known to produce this should not have been able to remain alive.”
– Ayn Rand, The Fountainhead
That look in your eyes is all the poetry I’ll ever need.
She had a look in her eyes; soft, yet somehow wistful. Cool blue uncertainty, melding with something else I couldn’t quite place – something vaguely familiar, though perhaps imagined, as it had faded quicker than an exhalation.
They say that the eyes are a window to one’s own soul, and I do not disagree. They also act as mirrors, however, catching and reflecting back that which hides behind our own eyes – that which we often do not notice, and cannot explain for ourselves.
this is much like a computer must feel
(were it not a cold machine)
when rubbed against a magnet –
she sits close
so close that
i can feel her heartbeat quicken
and i know
that mine does the same
though i dare not speak
much like a hard drive
with an attractive force
— a force so powerful
that it binds the tongue
of this (self-proclaimed) wordsmith
much like witchcraft
though perhaps less sinister.
She moves with the melody; long dexterous fingers weaving sound from the air. Swaying like meadowgrass, she loses herself within the tune as if it is absolute. As if it is the long awaited answer to a question never asked.
To watch her play is much like watching a caged bird fly free.. Her aura is ablaze, yet she is completely at peace. She is in her element – transcending physicality, she becomes a part of the music.
where do the days go ?
at times i feel i may be losing them
that they’ve been scattered someplace
strewn and shattered by my carelessness
with every blink
tomorrow has already drawn in,
before i’ve noticed the incline
where do the hours fly ?
slipping through my fingers
like the finest silt
carried away with the breeze
of every exhalation
another minute’s freed
tantalizing, yet so out of reach
spreading its wings for the first time
where does one keep all those moments passed ?
all the jovial smiles
and playful laughs
caught with butterfly nets and jam jars
with every heart beat
i pull these memories closer
stowing them somewhere safe
so to never lose track of time.