August 31st, 2021
A book of black leather left unopened on the table sat for days. I'd simply forgotten, is the answer to a question if asked. But never spoken, only implied with quick glances and guilt of a passion neglected. But always noticed, unopened on the table. Until he opened it, my blood, my father. He moved pencil shavings of dull color and loose paper with unfinished watercolor mess. The book of black leather learned quiet intimacy, and learned of its emotion provoking abilities. Whatever its contents, whatever I poured into it over the past year, brought him to a silent wail. He said he was proud, moved, and all around bewildered at the book of black leather. Just another sketchbook to a hopeful man's daughter; a book of untapped talent to a washed up artist's father.
R.K.
YOU ARE READING
Holeheart
PoetryI am the forgiver. I am the destroyer. I'm not at fault, but I deserve to be. Poetry and Prose Volume V 2021 DISCONTINUED
