Fay wielded the hoover with feverish pace, fanatical zeal perspired on her face. She stabbed at the needles that littered the floor, the Christmas tree dropping as never before. The pudding was steaming, the sprouts set to boil, the list was just endless of her Christmas toil. She swigged from the sherry she’d hid on the shelf, turned the dial up to max, and vacuumed herself.
I have chosen the word ‘Craxis: the unease of knowing how quickly your circumstances could change on you- that no matter how carefully you shape your life into what you want it to be, the whole thing could be overturned in an instant.’
Breath melts the frozen crystals on the pane, darkness within aiding light without, and I see you glitter like tinsel and race through depths of sumptuous black, rearing your head, chasing bears, scattering stars, kicking up nebulae, snorting out clouds of galaxies, proving life.
Mish was on duty at the d’verse poets pub last night, (https://dversepoets.com/) inviting us to write a Quadrille which includes a version of the word ‘tinsel’. This is a revised and reduced version of a poem I wrote recently about Pegasus, prompted by an image on Visual Verse. (Weirdly, I have just realised that Pegasus also features in my previous post!)
Are you riding Pegasus across the impenetrable depths of a haunting black? Are you a dancer, dust-scuffing your soft points across the boards, your audience enthralled? Or have you left that realm of long ago, when dreams wrapped soft around you?
Do you feel the cold wet slabs beneath your bare feet, the dig of roughened wood? Are you flying or falling as you feel a rushing beat absorb you into what you long for? Are those angel’s wings you hear, as you feel the cold air rushing across your face?
Carrie at The Sunday Muse Blogspot (http://thesundaymuse.blogspot.com/) has given us another wonderful prompt with this image. Visit the site to read the fabulous responses from the Sunday Muse Blogspot community.
There I go. Scritch, scratch. Can anyone else hear the faint jots and scraps that scrabble through my head? When I am dead, will the pathologist see a muddle of words and lines, started, forgotten, or discarded, that etched their way into the soft tissue of my brain. A pattern of rivulets amongst the moist and grey of my frontal lobe, carrying notions and thoughts along a journey through my cortex, leaving an impression, of sorts.