Pupil

Light drops, a swirl of grace.

Fingers on buttons.

The frosted glass of intent, it shivers colours in my ache.

Not seen or heard, the time I hold.

Beautiful transcendence – moth or butterfly.

Each time I think it resonates, each moment a passing past.

The wind protests a desire to be heard.

I listen.

And yet there is solitude in this crowded mind.

A lone thought, bubbling to the surface.

Perhaps time is the measure after all.

 

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~ by Paul McGovern on January 25, 2012.

8 Responses to “Pupil”

  1. I love that phrase “each moment a passing past”, wow.

  2. ‘The frosted glass of intent, it shivers colours in my ache.’

    I especially love this line.

    Also light…I see it as grace. Love that description. And time – an endless subject matter indeed 🙂

  3. The subject of time is fascinating…and nowhere moreso, I think than on a train…your mind here, is that train…”each moment a passing past” Some other truly beautiful lines “the frosted glass of intent, it shivers colours in my ache”…that’s shiveringly lovely. This is thoughtful … exquisite language and imagry throughout.

  4. Thank you so much J for taking the time to read and comment, much appreciated.

  5. Time, the alchemist and the idea nurturer. When you have that spark you are not quite sure if it will be shit or splendor As you so eloquently stated: Beautiful transcendence – moth or butterfly. Perhaps each stage is its own type of art that is more meaningful on level that renders language inconsequential. In other words, a poem is merely the leftovers from the real meal, the act of creation.

  6. Thank you so much Val for taking the time to read and comment. I greatly appreciate it : )

    Creative process is indeed fascinating!

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