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Posted (edited)


find a subject.  

perhaps life?

(gold-red ichor in veins and laughter on rushing wind) 

or, perhaps, death;

(bones in dirt, in earth fed to plant roots and worms, dark crypt-shadows, ashes on wind that is dry and tastes of smoke)


nature, emotion, love, pain— 

pick something.

(find those worms in your bone-dirt and find the life and death tied together with handwoven red yarn, red like blood in veins and lips for kissing)



get out your paints. your

alizarin red 


yellow ochre


ultramarine blue



paint me a sunset

(bird calls in the night, cricket song; paint me i love you's in the violet evening)

paint me your pain, your love—

paint me a sensation.



realize your subject changed.

it's fine.

(love turns to anger or vice versa; grief becomes tranquility with the cyclical patterns, the geometric consistencies.)

perhaps this was intended.



write on parchment with old black quill.

scritch-scratch of metal end on paper, words forming in loops and lines—

condense your canvas onto the end of a pencil and place your sunset in the alphabet.

twenty-six letters to paint a universe.

(twenty-six letters for the birth of a star, the spinning of a galaxy, the first cry of an infant as she opens eyes into a ever-moving world—

twenty-six letters for eternity.)



name it.

name it 'my heart is here' or 'the sun is bright' or 'the world is burning'.

or, perhaps—

do not name it at all.

(names hold power, after all, and your poem already holds your heart; take care not to trade away your soul as well)

leave the outside of the envelope blank.

let it be a surprise.

(here is a secret that is not a secret but a gift)



press your lips to the seal.

this will mark it yours for eternity.

even without your name, it will hold your essence—

and your essence goes beyond your dna.

(it is beyond your blood, your name—your essence, perhaps, is closest to your heart.)



nail it to a tree. tie it to the leg of a bird. trade it to the fairy queen for something precious.

(leave it untitled for the latter. to fae, your words are weapons when named, and perhaps they are right: the pen, after all, is stronger than the sword.)

'this is my heart,' you will cry from the hilltops, or from the barstool, or from the lonely tree trunk.

and though you may think you are alone—

someone is listening.



'i don't think it's very good,' you will say. 'perhaps i should not be a bard.'

'ah,' the old beggar will respond, for all old beggars carry wisdom immeasurable:

'but it is yours. of course it is good.'



breathe out your essence from the tree stump, the hilltop, the corner of the inn—

(the crackling fire, the people laughing, the mead sitting warm in your stomach.)

bid the old beggar goodbye.

(his songs will follow you on your journey, humming in the back of your thoughts.)

your mark is made—

immortality is at your fingertips.

Edited by thepensword
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