poetry hr

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             <br><br>
             Is echo a lost love? Is it a reflection? Is it a reminder?
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             An injury so powerful it was to the wailing gale.<br>
             To never disappear: it shut down eyes to the tale.<br>	
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             birdsongs, fields of fleurs<br>
             she was not sundered
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         <br><br><br><br><br>
         <p class="c">dread</p>
         <p class="c">an empty home</p>
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         <p>It carried it with it all this time, and with me I carry my eyes to see it.</p>
         <p>The pink beach, the calm blue waves, the dark night sky, they move</p>
         <p>ever so slowly, and they glow, effervescent.</p>
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 I’d rather be wool. Wool keeps you warm. Wool scratches against your skin. Wool binds your feet. Wool binds your hands. Wool binds your head. Wool gets wet. Wool gets mushy. Wool falls apart.
 <br><br>
 Or I’d rather be silk. Silk is a novelty. Silk drapes over you and slides. Silk doesn’t deserve you. Silk doesn’t hold itself. Silk shines. Silk falls. Silk weeps.</p>
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 	He was pushed and pulled to get it done.<br>
 	He threw the chair at the doctor but was shot with a tranquilizer.<br>
 Misery fell upon everyone.</p>
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 	<p>He stood confidently but was relaxed. I sat before my canvas and held my pencil with my arm fully extended. I took his height with it and transferred it to the paper. I began with the outer form, quickly sketching the outline of the body with some guide lines to maintain the proportions and checking the lengths every now and then with my pencil to make sure they matched the subject. He smiled awkwardly as I fixed my eyes on his body. I had only finished the initial sketch when I found myself standing before him. We locked eyes and I raised my hands, then I rested them on his chest. His skin was a bit rough and rather dry, and the curled hairs – surprisingly soft – rolled under my touch as a I stroked the chest. The composition was very much lean, but also firm as a sturdy human body would be. The figure was fairly consistent throughout, with narrow hips and slightly broad shoulders. I grabbed the waist. It’s one of my favourite parts to draw because it is a common pitfall. I used to draw this part of the torso too short. I continued to feel the contour, memorizing every angle and every turn of his body. As I went back up, I could feel his chest rising and falling slowly. It’s rather cliché, but it is fascinating to feel somebody’s life right under your hands – the beating heart, the flowing blood, and circulating life flowed under my touch. I looked into his dark eyes again, this time I placed my hand on his face. Freshly shaven stubble tickled my sweaty hand. It is usually an unpleasant feeling, but I couldn’t help but feel adoration instead. My hand slowly glided over his chapped lips, then it jumped over to feel his nose, its soft tip and its subtle bump.
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 	<p>I hate him.</p>
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