After all that... all the 'stuff'.
I recently heard that one of the most poetic of men; a writer beyond most, used 16,000 different words in his poetry.
My only question is... who would be so anal as to count such a thing?
Maybe I will take a different tack with what I decide to share. This time, with a new slate, I think I will be a bit cautious...
Let's start like this....
From Out of the Dust
I rose up, coughing
Choked on the dust settled around me
Bone-dry and thick-tonqued
I work my mouth to find some moisture
Propped up on my arms
I shake the cobwebs from my eyes
Real cobwebs... drifting down
I focus on those tattered remnants that float
On unfelt movements in the air.
The brightness of the light It is what struck me as I lay
Confounded by my surroundings
I, as unrecognizable as if in a dust cocoon.
I wear the slag of years gone by, dust that hides me
Conceals me, alters my appearance
Til it has come that no one knows who I once was.
Dust grey hands go to my face
And scrape away the crust of time and feel... yes...
I still feel...
The soft and supple skin beneathe the bark of time.
I am still alive.
I do survive
All I need is to face the fears
Wash the dust away with my tears.
For to hurt
Is the proof
You are still alive.
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