|Author:||Nola||Published:||over 3 years ago.|
The calico angel with raffia wings sits on the box where we keep the firewood.
A gold bracelet forms a crown above the faceless face.
Without a face, is touch the only sense that makes sense?
Is it easier to believe the faceless do not feel?
That a caress cannot span the distance and be grafted to another soul without incision?
That I am not accountable for embraces withheld, tenderness withdrawn, words without application?
But if I no longer feel, what use are senses?
© Nola Passmore; Published in Poetrix, Issue 32, May 2009, p. 13