All I have are words —
egg shells & feathers,
hollow bones, empty nests —
to give you, numbingly,
the endless iconography,
litany/liturgy of love & loss,
sad little hellish dreamworld
I less inhabit than wear
around me tight as snakeskin.
Take the scar on my rib,
take my left thumb
for all that is beyond grasping,
take my right eye made of mud
and amber flecks, with but one
could my world be any flatter?
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From the time that a human dipped hands in red pigment and stamped symbolic consciousness onto a cave wall, groaning into its darkness, it has been the work of the Bard to hold the weight of the world’s stories of joy and grief. To weave words in a universe where past, present, and future are only an illusion, is to hold eternity at your fingertips. And if you are not alone in knowing it…that is as good as heaven.
Oh my, thank you for that gift of words, Poetessa
Brilliant, beautiful piece!
Thank you, LM
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Thank you for naming me Bard.