This is an early poem of mine, from way back in 1993. Overly romantic, but here it is: I am the hoard of words, the broken blackboard's face with bitter words of chalk. I am the heart's dove-tongue, surveyor of the sky that wrestled down my wings. And I once heard the song that was sung in the hills when the heart of the wind knew her name.
...and that's through poetry. There's something hidden between the gaps, some combination of words that could make silence sing again.
My friend said something about poetry ‘it was words singing’, something like ‘emotive association’, but that was a glance of cleavage past, a smile and fiddle of sandal, the way her golden skin shined with sweat till it dropped, right in the dark valley of her frilly green and orange dress, cool and open-topped, as if to let the air in for a slow ...
Kept close in and at its chest, small hands cupped, that ghost popped in, a door guest. It tricks n treats in sheets best.
Updated 10-01-2011 at 09:26 PM by Silas Thorne
This tongue is not a mirror, it is full of Frost, the great world-ender. Let warmth melt sharp points kinder.
Updated 09-26-2011 at 08:01 PM by Silas Thorne