“A poem about writing, please, for one writer from another. ^^”
The collisions of grimy memories. Slurping on the tides of melodies like freshwater shaking the sea.
Sprung forth from dirt, words unharrowed, unburned, begun- pour from pens like spicy wax coming alive with changing passion.
Now these poet’s words rest loose on rocks ready to be splashed and cracked open for my brave assembly.
My hand plunges into the black to take what disconnects senses from sense, which lingers on roots of tongues. I stitch it into curtains to decorate and encapsulate the life that surrounds us within our swirling existence.
The wooden dusk is foundation. The heavy rhythms of old rise up from the depths of rusted fog whispered from the untied worlds to caress our unbalanced.
To find the free words takes only unfeathered focus and an eye for the unseen then the knots unlock and words sprout stories.