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Jan. 7th, 2017 01:10 pmFound a thing on my old art blog (that I should really start using again)...
The Memory In The Mask
Who is the River's Wayward Daughter?
She is the face behind the mask, glimpsed from the corner of the eye in the shards of the broken mirror.
She is a fluttering of a gauze skirt in the twilight breeze of the ocean
She is a jingling of a bell, deep in the heart of the forest at noon.
She is the half-remembered thread of a tune heard in childhood.
She is a mortar and pestle carved from white marble, stained with smoke and fire.
She is the faint scent of petrichor and amber, overlaid with pine.
She is the footstep in the sand at the edge of the pavement at the crossed road.
She is a scrap of silk filled with dried lavender and rose and mint, tied with a ribbon.
She is the shadow at the river's edge in the moonlight.
She is a beeswax candle on a table beside a notebook and pen.
She is the reflection of the moon in a cup of red wine.
She is the face once worn, before time and life stripped the forest and the sea.
She is the voice once spoken, and the dreams once dreamed.
She is the face beneath the mask that was taken to cover the flame-scorched burns and wear a life that was not hers.
She is behind the mask, but not the one who wears the mask.
She is what was and what was lost and that which must be found
She is the memory in the mask of the one who came before.
She is me, but I am not her.
The Memory In The Mask
Who is the River's Wayward Daughter?
She is the face behind the mask, glimpsed from the corner of the eye in the shards of the broken mirror.
She is a fluttering of a gauze skirt in the twilight breeze of the ocean
She is a jingling of a bell, deep in the heart of the forest at noon.
She is the half-remembered thread of a tune heard in childhood.
She is a mortar and pestle carved from white marble, stained with smoke and fire.
She is the faint scent of petrichor and amber, overlaid with pine.
She is the footstep in the sand at the edge of the pavement at the crossed road.
She is a scrap of silk filled with dried lavender and rose and mint, tied with a ribbon.
She is the shadow at the river's edge in the moonlight.
She is a beeswax candle on a table beside a notebook and pen.
She is the reflection of the moon in a cup of red wine.
She is the face once worn, before time and life stripped the forest and the sea.
She is the voice once spoken, and the dreams once dreamed.
She is the face beneath the mask that was taken to cover the flame-scorched burns and wear a life that was not hers.
She is behind the mask, but not the one who wears the mask.
She is what was and what was lost and that which must be found
She is the memory in the mask of the one who came before.
She is me, but I am not her.
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