He spoke to me of memories gone, of a beauty he had seen, that I reminded him of...
He spoke of the Iraq that had been, of burying a sweet girl in a dress so green, what he's dreaming of...
He spoke and I sat there listening to the song that he composed, he stroked my feathers, my plumage of violet , red, blue and green.
And again, I envied the pain of my fellow compatriots, their agony, their day to day turmoils that had passed through them, and is now like a foggy window, being wiped with the back of a western hand.
In his mind, he wished and wished and wished. But you see, he can't wish backwards!
"You must have been born an artist", "You must paint and draw and have a show" and I said that I do, I paint the most glorious pictures of magnificent color with my fingers as plumes and my words as paint. Yes, I draw beautiful pictures with my words.
He felt, he thought, but he said differently...
I enjoyed all three.
The pleasure of the forbidden, beckons me!
And I enjoy. I will enjoy. Words are pleasure for my tongue to curl around and taste, for my eyes to rove and devour, for my ears to hear and recover and for my hands to twist around in knots the sentiments that we control to feel.
Very sensual, poetic lilt to your words.
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