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THIS IS MY LOT, BEAUTIFUL STRANGERS.
Memory takes a lot of poetic licence. It omits some details: others are exaggerated, according to the emotional value of the articles it touches, for memory is seated predominantly in the heart. But as we pass the years by what's left of an hyperbole of a memory is diminished to close to just a symbol or two. Given a poet's weakness for symbol it's like holding on to the many symbols that mean something- lest we forget after everafter.  If you could paint just one picture, given all the ability and the rare gift of an artist's stroke, what would you paint? I know what I would, and that would be the greatest symbol of my holding on in an imminent letting-go because after all, I have a penchant for symbols, and you would require one no less poignant than purple prose or painful poetry- maybe something close to a procession of stars. TonFlyingHigh!5:01 PM *** |
Behind The Wheel; 
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