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Clanking of pipes, Vocal chords, anyway. And a word washed down the drain. And in a sound, An echo can live. Lost forever, obsessed with, The voice of a sound. If words dwell in radiance, The blush of a sunrise, And the flush of a sunset. An echo lives in a shadow. On a cold cement bed, Urban chilled life. Tormented by it’s timid voice, Withdrawing into itself. In a different world, Syllables would be fundamental. The shape of a sound is dependent, On the beat of the word. Something sensual, In the rolling of the tongue. The angles of a jaw dropping, And the curve of a word. |
The angles of a jaw dropping...sweet imagery, my Precious One.| Posted on 2012-11-01 00:00:00 | by ruejacobs | [ Reply to This ] | Much to do about nothing. | | Posted on 2012-10-31 00:00:00 | by poetotoe | [ Reply to This ] | I like this, especially the last part. It's important to think about this as a writer but not too much imo. Sometimes you just gotta let words flow out, let emotions, not analytical thought, gather behind them and push them forward. | | Posted on 2012-10-30 00:00:00 | by Paradox | [ Reply to This ] | |