beating its wings against the prison bars
longing to reach the outer world of light
and all untramelled soar amongst the stars,
wild mighty thoughts struggle within my soul for utterance
as the lightings play through thunder clouds
so beams of blinding light
flash for a moment on my darkened brain
and leave me in a darker deeper night....
¬'A Waif' Ella Wheeler Wilcox
Reciting poems just to fill my heart with external inner light, letting words whisper from my mind and drip from my tongue, while crazed scribbles of half-drawn images crumples into a ball. The paper beats itself against the wall, as the pencil had once left its mark darkly on the virgin page. Its purity vanished, its image vanquished, the paper cowers in graphite shadows waiting waiting. for what? A cure of hopelessness. A cure for graphite dust that darkens the much wrinkled brow. And will it come?
Will it come?
"someday I'll become what I want,
someday I will become a thought,
that no sword or book can banish to the wasteland
a thought equal to a drop of rain on the mountain
split open by a
blade of grass,
where power will not triumph,
and justice is not fugitive...
Someday I'll become what I want..."
¬'Mural' Mahmoud Darwish
The word is like a painting now, a scar of beauty on the page. The scribble but a tainted image, the illusion of illusion, failing to communicate the mindless mind.
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