• Marcel Wormsley

Requiem After a Dream


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It all commenced witha journey to the edge of shadows cast forth by a trace of light that smiled and imparted to me truths that seemed to persist throughout eons; Between one eon and the next a steady look speaks directly into my Being, causing it to stir with naïve inquiries into the state and manner of its origin.

And the Sun began to recline possibly to fill in the gaps of lost space, arresting every silken prayer in its wake. An incandescent strand of her hair binds it all together. I grab a portion and waltz across worlds misshapen at the poles

And elongated at the center. Her symphony arises breezily from the hazy blue moldings that encase the equatorial seas coursing throughout this protracted belly of affections and passions unalloyed and unmasked. A demigoddess once envied her tears

And attempted to destroy them, but was distracted by the exigencies of every mangled thought that swelled within, aching for emancipation, begging the heart to recall every shrill note sung by this restless hoard of deeply-perturbed, jaundiced crows soon to drown mercilessly in her elegant streams.

Every angle has patiently waited outside of time, looking in, awaiting her return. From whence will she come? How long will they sing her praises before they glare into her windows, erupting the seas of my solace anew? Behold! Her silhouette glistens at the darkest hour. She won’t weep this time; but will nourish me with the

Honeyed nectar of her voice, which glows once ingested, then dissolves into a million questions all asked and answered, interlocked and melded together with slippery edges that taper off every eventide. And every morning the journey begins again, tracing a long, serpentine path into the shadow’s edge,

Addled by the piecemeal memory of her kisses, Filled to surfeit with the lustful ambrosia of her secrets disclosed under the hushed bend of this crescent glow that shimmers no more. The rain has made it dull; A memory dangles and fades into a patchwork of speckled flowers, slightly recumbent, pointed in the direction where her footsteps would have been.

Art: “Untitled” Richard Diebenkorn

#art #Artwork #literature #creativewriting #poetry #poem #ModernArt #Artist #Poet

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