Tuesday, November 02, 2010

apologetic shoulderblades

the writer has written for a lifetime. putting quill to paper seemed a course of life on it's own. taking a linear cognizance beyond the boundaries of his ether. at lengths his hands tired, his heart marred, his soul charred and his being traduced into impertinent fallacy.

as the writer wrote, he wanders through the landscape of pseudonym anonymity. the accursed course that sets out to leave it's discourse. the road less taken, much bade but bids left mistaken. for at the end, this intrepid traveller is gifted the journey decrepit. all is well until the enthused falls into a chasm of surfeited conscience.

he knows the fall as much any fallen soldiers should. to confront it at ease in a derelict nature. knowing it all, at the end he heads back to the veranda of his heart. for so long, at the weary end of his travels he falls back to bliss.

bliss is her. his catharsis in human form. she is desire fine tuned, to the littlest decibel of harmony. silk thread hair. waterbed eyes. crimson bitten lips. satin laced skin from the supples of the neck to the shoulders, the arch on the small of her back, to her legs and the channels of her feet. a fine exemplar of god's existence.

he smiled as lethargy sets in, as he lay asleep on her apologetic shoulderblades

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