When it becomes writing, it is no longer catharsis.

The process is one of synonyms flowing
in a natural sequence.

Flowing over the skin, often as flat as olive oil
of that kind with which some define the sea
when it is so indefinably flat, that they find it
- with depth - at the surface of what does not
blend.

Flowing within the veins, in a painless purification
of the blood that escapes from subtle wounds
of obvious expiations, admitted with all
the scarlet astuteness of a paint used to depict
roses, thorns, and juice of ground pomegranates
in living portraits, so that they may be seen, should
someone prefer to, as still-lives surging along
a wall.

Or flowing across some piece of paper, and then
oozing with the sick yellow tinge of a soul
that purges itself until the next synonym becomes
one of a depurated sun in an uncontaminated air
that surges upon the lips where the yellow may
alternately turn into the pale, apprehensive hue
of a smile, or the amber sweetness of some
furtive honey.

Flowing like tears gathered in hands cupped
like seashells that refuse to season, with the salt
of clichés, those glances lost in bland fallacies
of shores where the sand is sand and period
- brushed from the feet as one goes away.

Flowing, precisely, like going away, in a
process – absolutely natural – that is
synonym of catharsis, and thus, of arriving
to total cleansing – thus, to everything, thus
to nothing.

Thus, when it becomes writing… it no longer
is.

© 2006/2007 Alexandra* ~ OneLight*®

*

Please click on the link below to read, also, my latest short story here in AD... you'll have a good laugh! ;0)

"A wild tale of wild asses" - http://www.authorsden.com/visit/viewShortStory.asp?AuthorID=14937&id=24923