findingexpression

awe, humility, hope and a few other things I might notice


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still life

It is still life, as if questioning if it were life, if it were a life,

resignation after a complaint, an unbold assertion or

a remnant, pieces torn from something grand like granite statues

quilted now, puffed little packages of memory, but not resembling itself,

stroke stitches stretched, now sagging,

darting around corners of a former personality

between snips of a familiar voice.

 

It is still a life, a time, a process, going,

unrippled waters, glass bows and boroughs unseen

watching sand bend.

 

It is a still life, quiet, slow breathing, un event full,

no trace of the impending doom of shadows or bright distant light of other worlds or

possibility,

but not languished

observed perhaps.

Mona Lisa’s stilled life,

stolen, bargained, negotiated into or out of,

allowed

an infinite compromise

paused in action, a view of the moment, of transition, of knowing that the

next step has already been initiated, neutrons are in place and protons bouncing,

still life