verses hanging in the air
whirls of words waiting
to be strung together
so many beads on a string -
yet what do they matter
such very transient things
are these(that are
impossible to break apart
once they have been joined)
I feel them blowing
gently in my ear
as they coalesce: amalgamated
thought and feeling
inappropriate to express
so I will let them fill me
with abandonment for now,
before the prosiac world whisks
the wor[ds away -
a hazy memory of a lazy day
a secret happiness
a deeply buried sorrow
and to dance, dance, dance with no tomorrow...
A chronicle of nose growth
'...changing the form of one's mission's almost as difficult as changing the shape of one's nose:
they are, each, in the middle of one's face and one's character - one has to begin too far back.'
― Henry James. The Portrait of a Lady.
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