SUNDAY, JANUARY 11, 2015 AT 11:02 AM

[ The Poetry That We Are ]

I gave up the pen a long time ago. I understand that my own words
are indescribably inferior to the infallible intonations of the infinite
God who, for some reason, wants to write me. And loves me enough
to let me choose my own ink, for its color depends on what I am
willing to surrender.
Black. Simple. Restrained. Only as expressive as I allow my poker
face to be and its grainy. Rough. Filled with leftover shards of failed
masks that cause the nib to catch - sometimes leaving more
scratches than letters.
Blue. Tears. Life. The broad expanse of a cloudless sky, both open
and empty (depending on how you look at it), for there is no texture
to mark when one layer of the atmosphere transitions to the next,
and so too do the letters blend together until the only legible words
are fine, thanks. And you?
Red. Blood. Pain. The rawness of my soul as it cries out in all its
anger, angst, and agony; begging for something to make sense of
this ache that does not subside. Each stroke pens part of me - a part
Ill never regain but shall rather fade, with time, as the vibrance of
acute experience dwindles to the dull sepia hues of memory.
Or, finally: gold. Promise. Starlight. Forged from the flecks of what
survived the fires - that which shines brightest and untainted. The
purest. For though it remembers the flames, their only lingering
effect upon the ink is to lend more vibrance to the light these words
exude:
You are my dearly beloved,
He writes of me, in His own hand.
And thats all Ive seen so far.
But its a beginning.
And its enough.
#sweeterpoetry
Hummingbird Pulse; 117
Katrina Warme - 2015
SANTA BARBARA, CA, SANTA BARBARA, CA, UNITED STATES 63 MOSTLY CLOUDY

Created in Day One