You have taken over my sleeping and waking hours, you are intertwined with my very being, every breath I take, conjures your essence. I cannot fight it any longer, my dear, therefore I will wring you into a story, or maybe a poem; etch your likeness in wood or clay, or stone, or glass, never mind the medium; water color, pastel, charcoal, it matters not, life and time dare not forget you, I will make sure of it.
I will stretch you within the lines of literature, bleed your aura into the inky depths of my pen and pour you out until I can breathe without tasting you. Until my sanity has returned and my life, a semblance of normalcy. I shall try to trap the allure of you within the confines of paean verses because this, this is the only way I know how to love you.
YOU ARE READING
Quiet women and other myths: A collection of musings
PoetryI wouldn't go so far as to call this poetry (which would imply that *I* am a poet), but I can safely call this a collection of musings, thoughts and sometimes badly strung up words about anything and everything.
