Guest guest Posted January 2, 2008 Report Share Posted January 2, 2008 Ink Blots Knock knock. May I enter your world? I have nothing to offer except my heart's totalness, my soul, my every breath and my words. Yet putting you into words would crudely resemble kindergarten finger painting. Ink blots. Nothing more. For complimenta and poetry become you with no effort. Gentle dewdrops on morning flowers. Confetti at a ticker tape parade. Things that simply are... Page after page. Book after book of unintelligible word splatters. Though, (no democratic voting necessary), they will be seen and understood by all as references to you. Beautiful and pure. *** Nothing More The curtain is drawn exposing the day. The wind howls. Cold. The dark skies smother all picnic laced hopes, and again slaps my face, eliminating my empty filled longing of "perhaps today"... The clouds churn preparing to vomit their drenching rain. I see this event, this life, lack of life as a manifested masterpiece of ugliness. Nothing more. Not knowing love, an unsurpassed unity of blissful sighs eternal, and greasy popcorn during movie rented evenings- Not knowing. Did my watch stop? Time's concept is lost. Is damnation a month of the year? I am numb, very numb and lost. All days are reruns of the ones before. Years before. Eons before. You see (speaking to love), I have never seen the starlit eyes that the world claims you have. Nor the sound of your voice. The caressing words, caressing touch. Never knowing you, it is impossible to find me; So I am not and nothing more. Within my infinite mime box moment, I watch the roses outside committing hari kari with their own thorns. Their existance, their purpose was to be offerings when you were found. They have given up, and the few afraid of death have packed and caught a train. Nothing remains. No crickets playing seductive music with their back leg violins. No stars or full moon. Night is only the definition of darkness absolute. I breathe on the window pane and there is no fog. I look into the pond to see my reflection, but all thats there are fish washed onto land. Franticly gasping all in vane. I feel they were emanations of my guardian angels, now dead also. Yet, here I stand, still alive I think, rolling around in my eternal riches of nothing more. -Randy Looking for last minute shopping deals? Find them fast with Search. Quote Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
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