pink lungs

Today was a slow day. Slow in the brain, I couldn’t seem to make the writing flow. I sort of brainstormed for a while, writing random poetry, making little sense. I finally settled on a paragraph I spit out. The sentences were so short, that it morphed into a poem, which is pretty rare. Usually a poem remains a poem, and prose remains prose.

This first part was my brainstorm poem:

luna aura
I see you
I know you’re scent
sent from the sky
where in night I look up
and breath in
inhaling luna rays

ena hoo
beating h3art
with the metal stone cold against my chest
blowing cool air against my skin
lungs

lungs
pink
soft, softly breathing
between drum bones
at rest, at play
fluttering
like butterflies.

But the words evolved into something which was somewhat fluid and pieced together. Originally inspired by Ot3p’s Sevas Tra (art saves)

————————–

A word spelled backwards.
A word spelled forward.
A man in a mask is still blood and bone.
A woman in a mask is still blood and tears.
What is deceit when the entire world is fooled,
but the spirit knows.
And where do we go when we are only spirit.
But we don’t go at all.
We are here all the time,
living,
breathing.
Breathing is life,
breathing is spirit.
The lungs are pink.
The spirit is pink.
It is the body who is sad.
The body is shades of black and blue.
It is a prison.
Flesh cannot fly.
Flesh cannot think when it is hunger and thirst.
But;
but the spirit flies before it crawls;
speaks before it murmurs;
laughs and never cries.
What are tears in the sky?
What is a mask?
A word spelled backwards.

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