She Has Quills

Again,
she cultivated liquid notations until
the dull daily drip
of worn out adjectives had her
palms itching
for a more creative quill.

However, September sent her mind quilling
around in the space between her fingers and, again,
that infernal itching
had her stammering through sunsets until
the knots in her tongue left her
words to fall, drip

to the ground; drip,
like a child’s saliva as a quill
of cinnamon is set to simmer in cream and her
words pour over, thick, and pool again
around the kitchen table until
footsteps saw them scurry with the dust: itching

to nibble a hole in her sole. They itched,
perhaps, for her thoughts to drip
over breast and bone while she ran until
the grass blades held their quills
to the stories stained across her toes. Once again,
she wandered with the wind, her

memories making mockeries of her
dreams; her skin was left itching
for some sense of release. Again,
she let the world drip
from her tongue while the cruel quill
of luck left her bleeding metaphors. Until

she lay in the dirt; liquid choking the ground until
it regurgitated her--
told her to pluck the quill
from her shoulder blade and stab the itching
palm until she saw words drip
down her fingers and across the eyes of her

existence. She sat and watched. Watched the nouns flow. Watched until the itching
faded from her hands and they fluttered through verbs to drip
each noun with adjectives, again and again, as she cultivated life with her quill.

Reviews

[JourneyBlu]

Wonderful craftsmanship with the metaphors! "Again, she let the world drip from her tongue while the cruel quill of luck left her bleeding metaphors"-terrifc lines! I love the flow and think I can easily comprehend the feeling behind this piece. Nice work!

[Morteica]

Thank you. :)