Laced in Observations

Laced in observation, studying the sallow face of rain clouds, as I cling to the thought of Spring. Sniffing at the steam curling up from my keyboard, as confessional deadlines loom in the strains of silence. Needing to write down every single thought that passes through my head. The hush of the house deeply infused with reassurance, as each stroke of my keyboard lays a final imprint of thought.

Serving up thoughts from a vast tureen, a cacophony of voice from the past, looking up at the cracks in my ceiling, listening to the howling of the wind, taking edge from the past in poetic tongue of language, as the last bit of wax from a candle drips onto my desk in recognition of the wee hours of the morning. Writing is a way of talking without ever having to utter a word....

As crackles of silence

now drown from me

and break upon my feet...My pseudonym fending off inquiry, landscape littered with people who think they know me, but alas, she appears to have no past. 

Resting on my arm, peering out my window, poised in an arch, staring into shuddering red embers of sunrise, still kindling sultry flames of last evening. The little black dress, the heels, the dance of proposition, as the lace that wound around my body, now folds across my bed.