Echoes of Her

Her hands

trace constellations

on empty walls.

The walls remember.

Moonlight folds into her skin.

Night opens.

She walks.

No crowns,

no kingdoms.

Only the pulse

that bends the world.

Reviews

[Perdition]

Oh? That's all!..lol. "Only the pulse that bends the world."?
These are not lines to be reviewed, but rather worms in the silent white theater of treasonable minds; a raw and worthy collage to what we cradle as reality or the panacea of daydream, the elusive passing moment, if only we'd unfold or unwrap our subtle gasps into these poetic realities. A slippery skin and magic of sorts crawls at work here. I draw spirals on the ceiling myself, but perhaps a few constellations might be a welcome addition to my total mandala. Once again, a rare thing of light~

[Curly Grace]

Thank you for wandering through it...this one’s actually an older relic from my deity collection, a small myth I tucked away long before this season. Funny how those pieces still breathe when someone stirs the dust.

[Perdition]

I know the dust all too well and found this to match the myriad of myths as well as the depth of a wondrous composition.

[Curly Grace]

Some pieces keep their own old light…

[Fabian G. Franklin]

I really enjoyed reading your piece. It reminded me of this work by Lord Byron.
"She walks in beauty, like the night
Of cloudless climes and starry skies;
And all that’s best of dark and bright
Meet in her aspect and her eyes;"

[Curly Grace]

Thank you, Fabian… that’s a beautiful comparison, and I’m glad it touched a similar note.