Whispers

Perched above a desperate face,
Strain shakes the fractured moment.
Silky fingers reaching up again,
Mad canvas of nature's delicious muted consciousness.
Color between the edge of desire and ecstasy.
The pursuit, the torch of life,
Its claim, its comfort,
Its active pretension.
The vanity of vaporous thoughts.
The yenta is silent.

- Laura Ceville, 12 March 2002

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