The withered planes
of aged papyrus
read like shallow pools
of cryptic braille.
Alleviating the curiosity
of tentative fingertips,
bringing history
to budding flesh.
Oil paintings with
grease-splotch ink smudges,
blending twelve-point font
into navy ocean depths.
Palms melting,
bleeding present into past,
The synthesis of mortal hands
and the timeless archive.
About the Creator
Jamie Wilkinson
23 year old writer/poet from Montreal, Canada.
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More stories from Jamie Wilkinson and writers in Poets and other communities.
Just Sixty Seconds
Oliver sat at a cold, grey steel-covered table. He knew he was next. The longer he sat here, the more confident he knew he wouldn’t make it. His hands were tied to the chair he was sitting on, pushed up against the steel table. A small camera in the corner of the ceiling with a tiny red flashing light was the only thing he was focused on. He felt sick to the stomach. He knew he didn’t have long.
By Joshua Maggs4 days ago in Fiction
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