Little Miss Homo Sapien's Cave

The Intimist

I wave my pen like a
fairy writing in the air
with a wand, and
tales are read to
children. I hone

my music by laying
it down on the anvil
and pounding it to form
of golden voice and
instrumentation, and
magic is spelled.

I paint the grace
of my dance movements,
and the colors blend
perfectly with every
step to the rhythm.

I recite poetry about
a murder in migration,
my wings bringing me
to a spoken contentment
of prose and rhyme, bon
voyage! to be greeted.

Finally, you turn
the hourglass upside down.
My mind emptying, my heart
getting full. I am ready,
no more, to make sense.

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2 responses

  1. Beautiful. Love the hourglass metaphor. Thanks for commenting on my work too.

    23/12/2010 at 03:20

  2. Thanks. You have beautiful poetry yourself. 🙂

    23/12/2010 at 11:15

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