This piece is a bit experimental and most certainly non-edited, in need of much work.
Broken Things
A twig, made of innumerable threads,
breaking, bit by bit, each second,
silently tearing, silently breaking
apart. A mirror, shards separating
the recognizable self from the
unknown. Snow, piece by piece,
falling, broken from the sky and
bombarding pavement. Voices,
cracking with the weight of
nonsensical words, letters strewn
together, meaningless. Knuckles,
bleeding with pressure, a silent eulogy
to happiness, lost. Pages, fragmented
by weightless sentences, bold verbs that
rip. apart. Petals, pollen falling from the
stamen, polluting. Gravity, the particles
losing grip, allowing bodies, arms, bones,
brittle. loose. falling. breaking. Fire,
flames unleashing their burdening
wrath, fragmenting all seen and unseen,
to give way to an extinguisher, beseeching—
stop. the. breaking. of. broken. things.
About Me
- Oreet Felcher
- I am:
The blossom pressed in a book, found again two centuries later. A patron of the arts. An Existentialist: the master of my own destiny. An utter work in progress. Defective merchandise: The Borghese Vase whittled away by time but still standing at 1.72 meters tall. Achelois, ardently attempting to eradicate universal pain. Aegle, epitomizing healing or its need. A daughter. A wine and food aficionado, particularly that from France. A sister. A perfervid bibliophile, devouring books as a lion would its prey. An animal lover. A traveler in the subconscious confines of my mind. A patient; the most patient of patients. A nationalist with no nation. A science zealot. A conversationalist. An idealist, stricken with the “pessimist disease”. A writer: weaving lives with the tip of my pen, the ink flowing like the Colorado River—carving out the crevices of man’s hearts.
I am all of these, I am none of these. I am me.
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