The pictures are as abstract as my memories;
Ten years of dirt on an uncleaned window
Obscure any meaning they may once have had.

She’s in there, somewhere.

Her soul is scattered like the molecules that
Make up the air that dances between me and the sky,
Tracing endless, unpredictable patterns
As they expand to fill the world.

Perhaps she is the horizon, undulating gently
Yet strikingly as it forms a human edge to
The ongoing wilderness so alien to my island eyes;
A thing that is not real or constant, merely
A perception that moves with those who perceive it.

She is soft focussed in black and white, like a headshot
That looks nothing like the actor on the stage.

10/10/2010

Posted on 10/20/2010
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