Wednesday, March 24, 2010
Thursday, March 18, 2010
is a print of a memory
remaining on the pull
of our attention.
It could reach outside
if it wasn't concerned
about its shape.
It curls, believing in its self -
moving through what it was
moments before. Sleep is a dream
that it will never remember.
Its form has no patience
for stillness. Waiting
would give it breath, but becoming
alive would allow sight.
As soon as you see yourself,
you are not there.
Monday, March 1, 2010
Picture this, a scene from an epic,
beamed with a light so intense that it triggers epileptics-
into the modern day, fine art with a modern sway,
reaches out and touches the dead speaking to them inaudibly.
Whispering winds animate atrophied limbs,
when the sublties of all that is lovely begin settling in-
and taking root, the root cause of joy speaking in mute,
spoke quietly of itself like air passes through flutes.
Beautiful; pictures worth a thousands of words living on easels,
spring to life like soil life when light lays waste to the evil-
that being the darkness, colors of grey give a shade it's carcass,
in the wake of it's destruction divinity choirs a string of notes like a harp is;
That's what the heart is.
©Krishna Volk 2010