sculpted
of the clay
pulled from
primordial earth,
and dyed
with pigments
of ancient
starlight,
and written
into the pages
of life
with
enormous
words
and
a
filigreed
calligraphy,
and painted
onto the walls
of the world
in shades
of
ochre yellow
and
cinnabar red;
not
the surface
of the images,
but the architecture
of the work
itself.
brush strokes
and colours
and the vibrancy
of life,
and the volume
of the passion
throughout.
loud
and
colourful
and
conspicuous
enough
to silently reach
across thousands
of kilometres,
and
like anything else,
soft
and
quiet
and
gently
existing
in a delicate
uncertainty.
YOU ARE READING
Melancholia
Poetrypoetry takes us to so many places, and we take poetry to so many places. here are poems about places, and sometimes the people found in them.
