A poem: November

The vanishing words,
the vanishing images,
the shedding
of selves like autumn leaves;
of withered lives on wrinkled paper,
dust off the treasure chest
in the desert, next to a snake
regenerating its skin
polished,
your porcelain appearance melting into
the undefined-
does the new play of words annihilate
or build you?
perhaps it is the fading portrait
either that, or the smile in between
either that, or the infinite encounters
with the ineffable

You write, you cross out and over to
another vision
like an itch
you scratch
an identity.

4 comments

  1. Simply-Me says:

    Diana, you write beautifully.

    Liked by 1 person

  2. I really like your writing here Diana and your photos are incredible. I am interested in you have encapsulated in this piece about shedding of a skin and transformations occurring through the creation of art.

    Liked by 1 person

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