When I was a young man I chased them by the score. They were fast, young and lean. Conquest was my aim, seduction was the game. Procreation, I was playing with biology’s rules. I cared very little about much more. They were young soft and smooth yet firm all the same. No wrinkles could be found on these young goddesses. My hormones run amok, logic and caring little found. Notches in the belt was all that mattered.
As I grew older my demeanour changed, became seasoned with age. The shallowness of hormone drenched youth was replaced. The women slowed down and wrinkles could now be found. But I saw something different now, something I did not see before. The eyes, it was in the eyes that I knew. Like me getting old, mortality taking hold. We are all on the same path leading to an end. The journey was the same, the fear and the pain all the same, in fact kindred spirits were we. The sexes no different in this respect. The beauty that can now be found in the eyes, the smile and the sound. The beauty inside is what my maturity found, I grew to appreciate a woman, for all the universe is in her heart.
John Prophet is considered by many in the literary world to be the Salvador Dalí of poetry. His rough-hewn unfettered style mimics the artist’s unconventional view of perceived reality. Prophet encourages (through the skeletal approach of his writings) the reader to focus on the individual meaning of each word, thus allowing its message to be front and center. Meaning that can be muted within sentences and paragraphs. This creates vividness otherwise hidden. The skeletal nature of his efforts also allows the reader to flesh out meaning based on the readers personal worldview. Thus no two observers are reading the exact same creation.Wordsmith Association
That essence Those hands, that body that caresses who breastfeeds us that gives us life starting an eternal struggle who always leaves his teachings Their loves his consolations That essence that multiplies in the sister, in the aunt, in the
allow me this privilege of seeing you in , the unlit room in a chilly night, alone and guiltless, as night unmask your face, assumed Venus in the cowl shawl, splendor on the door it would admit, the dream of
Of all things sentimental. She came through the door wearing a suit of armor. The door closed behind her with a rattle and tick of swaying arms. With rust around her eyes she longed to be melted down. A drop
For ages, her life has been A journey of endless strife Most of the times unrecognised Generation after generation Beautiful as a part of nature itself In whose lap she is born and brought up She grows up to attain