The Writer’s Palette
Poetry
Perhaps the writer’s palette is laced with crimson.
Thorns of rosebuds piercing the sun.
Flames of fire igniting the obscure page.
Writing is like
turning a corner,
unlocking a bolted door,
unleashing a storm,
jumping off a cliff,
kissing the moon,
microscopically gutting your brain.
A soulful experience and revelation,
a sharpened blade to let the world see the soul bleed.
But am I monochromatic?
A shadowed pen to pulp,
letting you see an otherwise unsequined universe,
a reflection of my own evaporated being
perpetually lost or found,
alternately hiding and revealing itself
from rain-soaked windows,
or within flecks of sublime sunshine beaming
through a kaleidoscope of shattered glass.
Through the thick and thin of it,
the writer holds some things that ring true,
like a seminal bell that won’t be silenced,
against a wall of thunder,
or the grated peal of an unwavering, familiar voice,
naked and vulnerable,
undeniably combustible.
So, as the cracks infiltrate my stark world of black and white,
I unleash my palette,
in infinitesimal glimpses
as nuanced as an embroidered sunset
or an eclipse of the soul,
and I feel pangs of truth
while withered, parting leaves fall crimson,
and unenlightened stars cast shadows on a frosted, golden moon.
© Connie Song 2021. All Rights Reserved.
