Monday, February 27, 2012

Timed Writing: 2/23/2012

Time: 10 minutes
Source Photo: FIGHT! 50/366

What your eyes have seen, I don't want to see.

That shadow of eyelash across bloodshot sclera chills my imagination. How many times have you dabbed earth-tones on the ears and cheeks, blackened the chin, olive-drabbed the lips? If charcoal rouge could be brushed on the surface of your eyeballs, would you wear it? You're enveloped in darkness, in leaves, in mud, in blood.

Two bright lanterns shine through -- panes emitting light of mind, admitting meaning of world. What have you seen? Your own hands, covered with gore, cupped to cradle your forehead? The far end of a barrel, aligned with the near, target eclipsed? A sliver of blasted road viewed below the arch of a wheel as you slouch low, hands at four and eight?

Seering white? You are blind. For too many moments. Some of the blood is yours. Mixed with dust and smoke, an erythroid sludge adds another color to your palette. Its ruddy hue a camouflage against the iron rich soil, the autumn leaves, the crimson sunset.

(about my timed writing exercises)

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