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Perpetual Motion by Theresa C. Newbill

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Perpetual Motion
By: Theresa C. Newbill


The leaves outside sway lightly
and I'm reminded of the beautiful
way you danced in that purple gown,
the one that caught the shimmer of
the low moon, sketching the evening's
rendezvous with brilliant white demons
that reflected ceaselessly upon your
brown eyes.

When night comes on, gently, like
this, I can dream once again. The
background fades into someone else's
face, someone else's snapshot, left
in the darkness of perpetual motion,
where the timing of independent objects
renders space helpless to the simplicity
of casual memory.

For a moment, it seems like a breeze
turning back the pages of an open book;
a diary of sorts perhaps, that precipitates
the climate of a collective past with
little nudges of enthusiasm, meaningful
only to those who know the vacancy of
an assimilated state--refining it back to
a lie, shadowed and invisible.

I see myself the way I used to be, when
your love fed my inspiration at random,
locking into place meaningful sketches
that were nondescript, secretive, yet
poetically universal in their mystery.
Sometimes the momentum of conviction
can bring about nostalgia, ignoring the
apparent.

The night's wind self-propels the blind,
and in its inertia fails to acknowledge
truth, but the sun makes its way across
the distance nonetheless, flickering over
twilight with no fixed point, marking
the blueprint where blackness lay,
insignificant to the wisdom of wanting
action. It is here where you slowly start
to disappear, as I awaken, and walk away.


About the Author

Theresa C. Newbill's poetry has appeared in a variety of magazines, and has won a number of awards.
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