“I am the apparatus of death.
I am the scream of a thousand tongues,
the raw storm of whispers
beneath summer’s sweet sweat.
I see your skin boiled, pink wax,
mother’s breast crushed by bitter milk,
shadows fasting in repulsive worship
that ache in the symphony of time.”
(c) Darren Hawbrook
I wrote this yesterday at our local writing workshop and still don’t know what to make of it. We were given a list of words and asked to come up with … something! To be honest, it was the only task I managed to write anything for all afternoon and I needed the words in front of me just to accomplish that.
So I guess this piece reflects how I’m feeling about my writing at the moment. I’m just not in a very good place with it. But I suppose that comes with the turf of wanting to be a writer. On a positive note, I wrote something. For those five minutes I reconnected with the vast, uncultivated plains of my imagination, the wilderness we seldom get to visit in our hectic and crowded modern lives. It may have only been a brief glimpse before darkness settled over the plains, but it might just have been enough.