I wrote once. Like the wind dances playfully artfully knowingly around every corner bouncing on fresh green leaves, words were spun teasingly on my fingers plucked from my tongue to tickle ears with images only eyes are supposed to have captured. A word fascinates all five senses and a sixth, imagination. Neurons spark like firecrackers on a warm July fourth sizzling and flipping faded spirals into memories and related experiences, the smell of grandmom’s garden or the way the light falls through the nostalgic tree limbs on the last day of summer. There were so many things I sought to say once, so many pictures to paint in prose… they all took flame in the fire of hurry and demand. Where was I to save them, to stop the torches of hell rising under my heart, burning into the treasures of my mind?
I’m searching now, backpedaling. Can anyone hear my voice? I’ll know my art by the vision of the echos. You’ll mark it by crowded syllables blurring the lines of real emotion with fictitious landscapes. Have you seen my voice? She dances like a poor flamenco dancer doing the tango to a waltz with one foot on fire. Have you heard my pen calling? He scratches music in letters and beats out uneven tempos to match notes only kindred souls can decipher.
I wrote once. Where are the words that are supposed to follow?