I'm living but I'm feeling numb, can see it in my stareI wear a mask so falsely numb, and I don't know who I am
Despite the worlds inside of me, thwarting me away
I've noticed in other eyes, time's closing in
My world is under a sentence of death
I was born underground.
---This Mortal Coil
A dream-like existence precedes a dream-like essence. A day passes, or is it a year? Does time mean anything alone (ask God!). A worm sighs like no other,the dark glass fades and a butterfly is born. A thousand chances have passed by before the inner storms are quelled. Flitting, fluttering in and out of time, like others fall in love. Strange are her paths. Blind or blinding, an undecipherable sign. Wayward and unpredictable,as random as the moon's scars. A life lived with remembered death. The blots spread. Beauty marks!
She continues the search for her true form. But remembering that other life she forgets how to fly. The nets close in. The silver inherits the black. And so, now she lives behind a glass case, protected from the winds of change, displayed under an eternal sun. Delicate, fragile, almost imaginary..restless, yet so still. From now on wings will have to grow inward. A world within a world within a world. But this darkness is nothing new: the night is also a sun and a sigh is just a sigh. To others she has become a name. But what is a face if not the revelation of a mystery?
2 comments:
My dear Bills
what a stunning image - care to give a little detail on the artist and the subject.
And the writing is fine and sublime though I am having difficulties in interpreting..or am I too prosaic??
Raza, hello and salaams.
what are you doing up so early..or are you ahead of me? (you always were!)
it's by Rothko (I've written -copied is a better word-other stuff on him under the label 'art' if you're interested).
Prosaic? Thum? masark na kar, kaka.
Post a Comment