i was suffering from a sort of writer's block since last june when i left for switzerland. more accurately, it was writer's low self-esteem. everything i wrote was crap. unfinished crap at that. but i buckled down and finished my first poem in 9 months. it was almost as satisfying as giving birth [or so i've heard]. coincidentally, it was a birthday gift to someone, but as poetry is the gift that keeps on giving, i can share it with all of you too. and p.s. the rest of my collected works currently reside here until their new home is finished.
Your art is dying.
All of the dust of the air
is there burning under your delicate smile
while you make what is dying, slowly
tying each knot like a ghost weaver.
Rolling the thread between
is thinner, finer,
a lingering smell of thick vanilla lace.
Your hand to your lips, remembers
the ache of each tiny victory
and slow caressed symphony,
hands dripping like honey across
everything, across anything but
Yes you are a dead art, slowly being born.