• Marcel Wormsley

Bereft of Words…


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Bereft of words, Save for this small exhortation I found Lying in the middle of the street. It wanted desperately for me to help him Find his face, or something fairly close to it, So that he could finally be seen again, And perhaps even interacted with; As x approaches the (a) limit of civility.

Afterwards we would locate his jar of coagulated thoughts And loosen them with his mother’s tears, The vagrant shadows of possibilities Forever unrealized lurking restlessly Within the hollowed-out space of each anguished drop.

Never mind the blood that cascades from his chest; Its song will end soon enough, And you will be forced to interpolate its lyrics Between each panged session, each rupture Of salvation from clot after blessed clot.

Churning and churning, A fire persists with Each successive wave growing more robust than the last In a furor of abandon withstood only by an escaping sun. There is no life in this place, Because he remained invisible Up to the moment the eyes of the other Encapsulated him whole Before the first words could take form.

Solace the hearts as you may, But you will not find him In your good will. Your fear is where they have made his home;

Where you defend against him, daily, Pushing him into the throes of immobility And de-personalization as you Seek refuge from all that Dare mention his name.

In the end, though, He is but waiting to be born. You will see him. And he will know a pure sun.

Art: “Constellation: The Morning Star” Joan Miró

#art #Artwork #abstractart #creativewriting #poetry #20thCenturyArt #poem #spanishart #Artist #miro #Poet #ferguson

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