Assignment seven, you were a cruel mistress. You came in the form of Poem Prose, and asked me to weave a piece with a prompt absolutely ripe with possibilities, “Fingers”. Alliteration was covered earlier one in Writing 201, and the vowels have now been offered a chance to enjoy their share of repetition. I’m aware that I unconsciously implement alliteration in my pieces. However, I did tried to incorporate assonance in today’s piece.

The piece started life as free write, and I quickly watched my editorial hand fail, swiftly overpowered by emotions of deep attachment. The length and structure of the piece could benefit from a more objective approach, however today, emotions win. Maybe next time. Enjoy!

A mailable palm of properties collect to construct this, Soul. Cradling a life form that teeters along the edge of things, wonders the waves of time, in time to be cradled by earth.

Listen to, the tapping tentacles, digits. These fingers of feeling, fidget. These are my emotional appendages, claiming a canvas wildly. Its through there numerous trails, overlapping in open air, that my peers form a picture of me.

They are alive with activity. Aiming there tips around me, swarming with hues of, everything. Where everything connects, the palm, collects the abstract. You can see the hand I was dealt, its touching. The mandibles whelp, at nothing, at time I am held as a prisoner as they wrap into a fist and forget me.

They stretch themselves in cannon whenever need and impulse impede. Anger has harshened strokes, envy forever emulates. Sorrow undoes me, under the pale shades it presses into existence. Happiness elevates my every steps with forever triumphant ease, I bleed these spectrum’s. Greed grabs at the edges, praying maybe there is more to have, but moments have me wanting more, control.

Its a morbid bag of inching whims that have latched themselves to living. I cant grasp a fuller picture when they roam as wildly as they used to. My nerves are growing steady now, fewer tremors inviting staggered stroke.

They are flailing metronome tips, that the winds of change provoke. They have marked time in memories. These fingertips, with fingerprints of an ambiguous spectrum, have walked the ivory keys of new beginnings and played my ballad, to a time signature they cannot forge.

 

(c) Saili Katebe