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Rated: 13+ · Poetry · Death · #1170280
rough draft of my poem about JTR
Through the Artist's Eye

As the mist tongues the docks,rolling lazily over the toothless gums of the broken down quay, I begin to transform.

A higher species, more refined, more intelligent and oh so hungry.

The fog rolls over these too too parched bones and fills them with a wanting that rapidly bursts into flame.

This is how my art begins, seeking only the canvas on which to execute my messages.

Forms ripe, fecund and ready to peel and open, the very fruits of my labors unfold.

Textures and colours seen by too few,womb ready wound red.

Once found their lividity now fixed, their tender flutters now silent my art now imperfect.

So brief, buterflies really know, such beauty fades and turns into tattered tarted all to quickly-glory lost and their beautiful bloody wings spread into the cobblestones.

Then home to the washing and back into the simple aprons that define my life by day. Cleaning and tending the wounded brave men, wiping noses of tiny tots,comforting the elderly in here in this cage I exist to serve.
Out there as the fogs trails lover's fingertips, the artist lives free.

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