Empty As A Reed Flute

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You ask me why I no longer write..

How do I write

when I have lost my ability to feel

lost my ability to bleed

to cry

How can I write
when the fountain has run dry

and the inkwell sits secluded.
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How can I write
when all I can do is sit and stare
at a mirror of

all that I am incapable of
in love,

laying an offering at the altar of forgiveness
trying so hard to clean up this mess
of my life.


Of what do I write
when the slate is wiped clean
and the words no longer form.

Of whom do I write
when they all appear like mirages,
smoky images with ghost-like visages.

 ∴

Empty as a reed flute I remain
patiently awaiting the breath of fire.

There is a distant song of longing —
I ache to listen through the mire.

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The Inkwell (a collaboration)

[Expression] “is a diluted paint brush – the true color is hidden in the bottom of the bucket.
Like humans, their authentic ‘hue’ is in the undiluted wells of the heart.”  ~ Skip Maselli
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We paint with a diluted paintbrush
the true color remains at the bottom of the watercolor palette.
Like humans, their authentic hue is in the undiluted wells of the heart.

We write with an emotion
imbued by the nourishment we receive from each another
moved to write, compelled to express

I feel you when you dip your quill into my heart,
my blood, the ink
with which you write your stories.

The ink becomes the symbol of what you mean to me,
your parchment as pure as our intent,
and I delve deeper into you..

Deeper still, I find the ink enabling
Allowing me to reach further into myself
Trusting in the inward and outward appearances..

.. of ‘this‘..

Delving deeper into each other,
treating tenderly all that we discover,
patiently, attentively, openly..

 

conveyed by ~Skip Maselli  
http://www.phosphorimental.blogspot.com/
anthologized & edited by ~ skyblueandblack