The elusiveness of feeling, true feeling. One finds it one day or another, and it's magnanimous, stately and beyond description. In the snap of a second turning and writing its history to the world, the moment is gone, lost, vanished as quick as it came, save for in the heart, for there history never dies, never fades. In the heart, it's a process, a process in the weather of the heart.
From the fumbled state of this festive twist, comes the dawn, bright, breezy and bold, a wandering nomad in the mist.
The air is thick with ash and fog from the bygone night, a lingering pattern of wispy plumes and dreamy shades.
She's in a void, past the trapdoors of perception, beneath the ether, she is the ether, the pale, rain-wrecked grey of the day before.
She's knotted into the neatly woven fabric of the night, beneath the flowing seams of the subconscious afore.
Her eyes hold the stars of the fading night, the dreams of her forefathers and their kin before them,
She is the rain and the drop, the bass, the alto, the nervous, the stable , the yang, the ying, the paint strokes, the fluttering shudder that shaded them.
She's the pale, the pitch, the string, the stitch. She's my whole world and i'm but a flicker in the dancing shadows of her moonlit life.
Por una persona muy especial. Gracias.
