artsja's Links
ever-present, ever-watching, unblinking. Three acts unfolding in a flurry of feathers and fur. Statuesque yet swan-necked. Greek tragedies never written. There's a story there: heavy, dreary and untold. Only a few melancholy etchings betray the youthful surface.
I choose not to linger on it. Instead, we meet wing-to-wing, our feathers gently swaying in the birch-infused breeze until a silent rhythm emerges. Perhaps? Perhaps....
Perhaps it is more than just his bird-like stature that draws me closer to him. I catch another glimpse into his deep-set eyes. Cornea. Iris. Pupil. Reflections dancing like light through stained glass windows. I know those colours - the same ones that appear when I close my eyes - and my chest fills with delight at this thought. Delight and yet unmistakeable anxiety: perhaps we are more similar than I'd thought.
In the warmth of a half-lit morning,
light drips through cracks,
melting shadows into whispers of birds,
strings over neck and limbs,
tethered to the soft hum of existence.
I arch my back to the sun,
feeling rays weave through feathers of thought—
large wings folding me in,
a blanket spun from dreams,
where all wounds are mirror-ed by nature’s grace.
Here, water flows clear and pure,
yet my mind clouds with the weight of silence;
a large open cut, a portal to become—
the sensation of tar seeping softly—
a balm for those heavy hearts that yearn.
Star-protons whisper their secrets,
while I curl in the twilight glow,
hiding under an expanse made warm
by a sun that sings old lullabies—
dreaming in colors no eye can touch.