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Two lovers met, tied their Hands together with A lightening bolt and rain Came and soaked them with A passion born from a forbidden Storm, which raged, raged, raged For a century, the lovers...
Her little face looks out on nothing A simple carving of her visage Watching without looking at our lives, Swimming past in some mirage Of hours and weeks and months, Passing by, tear-stained.
I saw this quote on an exhibit by the sculptor Lorenzo Quinn...
#household. There she sits, my Lady Grey. I wonder what she sees today. Stone eyed voyeurs, lust, intrude. The price you pay as a sculptor's nude. In essence you are very old.
Face as beautiful as they come. Carved out in pure ivory. But the eyes are vacant And the lips not say a word. Is this truly the image of a perfect woman. Man asked for her to be but stone.
#augustwriteaday Finally up to date. In this theatre of stone angels With Peter, Paul and James I lay my sins before you, Reveal my selfish games.
A leaden sky and a watery palette of wind whipped greys. Shuttered in, cocooned by warmth, the food, the conversation, oblivious to the snow falling silently outside.