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Literature Text
My love for you is cursive,
a dying art that will ultimately
be forgotten.
No more swirls will be etched
upon this heart--
no more ink will stain
these fingertips.
Soon it will be indecipherable
to all of those who try
to read it.
The letters will no longer
connect to one another;
instead, they'll fill
with spaces and blanks spots.
In the end, the only ones
who will be able to translate
the lost language of our love
are you and I.
And even then, we might forget
what each character
once so proudly stood for.
a dying art that will ultimately
be forgotten.
No more swirls will be etched
upon this heart--
no more ink will stain
these fingertips.
Soon it will be indecipherable
to all of those who try
to read it.
The letters will no longer
connect to one another;
instead, they'll fill
with spaces and blanks spots.
In the end, the only ones
who will be able to translate
the lost language of our love
are you and I.
And even then, we might forget
what each character
once so proudly stood for.
Literature
Angles of Light
That window which you look through Seems heavy, but the eyes You use to look with, set alight Each thing a thousand ways: Is dawn a bright mosaic? A bird in a gold tree? Disaster or a masterful Display of artistry?
Literature
bright orange pieces
The darkness of evening kindles a half-light in me. A sense of calm and sadness and utter change. I will see it later in my dreams as a burnt log breaking into bright orange pieces over dying embers. By morning I will not remember it the same way, but might suddenly recall how it felt to be in love. I would be glad to know what my heart can still do after all this time.
Literature
For Nice.
A strong Oak stands alone amid the hedgerow. Watching over this season's final yield of wheat. The last stage of the crop rotation. No more than a hardy grass, yet sufficient sustenance no less, for those that tend to the field. I note a ring of scarlet poppies circling the wheat. A blood-stain border, soaking the outer edges of the field. Speckled also, in amongst the crop, in that same sporadic pattern seen in blood splatter. A metaphor for the sacrifices made in ensuring that the village stays fed perhaps? Or perhaps, an aesthetic. Planted by the farm hand with little to no particular reasoning, other than just, well, for nice. The dog grows impatient, pulling at his lead as though to say that sometimes things just are, that I ought not to ponder on them for too long, lest I rob them of their inherent beauty. I scratch him behind the ears in agreeance. "good boy, lets get you home".
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I feel like there could be more added to this :/
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Comments11
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I just love the imagery here! Nice job.