A Study of Physicality

[klena]

The winter months chill
my fingers until they are no
longer my fingers but
long strands of ice.

Yet I have blood yet
and my touch upon you
would be warm and
filled with passion, if not heat.

I am shaped like no nymph,
for nymphs are lithe and fae
and
I am not.

I have curves and
ripples that do not always
grace me in photographs
but they are mine

(even if secretly I sometimes wish they were not)

My wrists can ache
for they were once broken
and weather can, on occasion,
wound me.

Generous poets and friends would
name my hair a river of curls
- golden as a child, now
a myriad - copper, magenta, white, blue, blonde

And today I can cope with my hair
but tomorrow I may not, and will instead
bind it in twists and numerous plaits
to my satisfaction.

I speak not of my face -
we quarrel often and to no avail.
Sometimes we are content with each other
and sometimes not

My top lip vanishes when I smile fully
and I feel conscious of this -
my eyebrows do not match my hair!
but my eyes are large and long-lashed

and even if the colour is not
striking or fair or easy to tell,
I am still content
for they, and all above, are mine

And that is what comprises me.

Comments

[klena.livejournal.com]

It did literally just stream from my fingers with no alterations or interruptions in thought. Which was cool.
I'm glad it makes you think of me and it brings such joy to you. *_*

I have love for you too, of course!
Did you dream such?

[urbanelf.livejournal.com]

THat's the best kind of poetry, stream-of-conciousness.
Whether it fits form or not
I find it beautiful.

I did dream such, but that dream is hard to recall, as it was the stream of conciousness itself.
Perhaps I did not dream I was writing it, perhaps I dreamt I *was* the poetry...