Member Rara Avis
The response to this in Open 8 just blew me away. I'm glad to have so many friends, and poets who understand.
-her silver pen, black book-
Silent, softly swift and fleeting,
Unbroken feelings torn and thrown.
I was destroyed by love.
Under the fall of a white pinnacle,
Smoke rising from its inside ruin,
I held a spider, waiting, weighing.
For it to bite me, or move at all.
But it was dead. The moon rose slowly;
Put her white eye on us, a shadow.
I cast the dead thing aside
And sat under the white-mooned ruin,
Waiting for myself to die.
Then a friend opened her black book,
Wrote me a poem on charcoal paper
In the smooth filament of the moon.
Silver ink against the black night.
She spoke in her script. I felt healed.
I was remade by love.