The Three Dimensions of YouAlthough I am not a wise manThe Three Dimensions of You by Rifle1980
Let it be known that I do have the privilege to see
Something that you can not
The beauty of your face three-dimensionally
Artists put down your brushes
Your strokes can't do justice to the contours of her frame
And poets put down your pen
No verse could describe the light that shines behind her name
Although I am not a wise man
Let it be said that I do have the privilege to see
Your beauty as it outruns time
With each passing year in three hundred and sixty degrees
Artists stop mixing your oils
No colour will come close to matching the shades of her skin
And poets close your note books
As to describe her eyes you would not know where to begin
Although I am not a wise man
Let me praise God that I do have the privilege to hear
Something that you do not
That is your voice resonating gently in my ear
I am an artist, a poet
Guiding images and words to creation from conception
Yet in her soul, body and mind
I have discovered three indefinable dimensions
Puddle Splasher “StopPuddle Splasher by Frank-Jaspers
Crackle many voices
Speaking from everywhere
As though all inanimate things,
All the bulky stuff down the block,
Like streetlights and car batteries,
Like door bells and spark plugs,
Conjoin as one to lecture me.
I am submerged
Deep in water
Though it’s only
A little puddle
On the sidewalk.
And the sky looks
Very muddy murky
Viewed from below.
The size of a searchlight;
It seems as high as the sun, yes,
But it is only a street lamp blinking on.
I rise up
From my sidewalk puddle
My sniveling nose wants to sneeze
My mouth is still snorkeling
And my ears are all damp in the hollow
“Stop playing under that sky you can't see!”
Skin Jumper: Episode 3, Ultraviolet TattooSkin Jumper: Episode 3, Ultraviolet Tattoo by Frank-Jaspers
Rasko listens to a cacophony of raucous voices, unable to discern what anyone is saying. It smells like a basement —musty, moldy, rancid. Opening his eyes, he sees distinct, parallel streams of light, alive with agitated dust, breaking through a wall of windows above his head. Further up, a high ceiling of wooden arches. He props himself up to look over the room. There are three lanes of sickbeds, two lanes running horizontally along the walls and one jammed through the center. It’s Khowa Hospital, located near the center of the city about two hours walking distance from the ports. Rasko is housed in the poor man's hospital, a series of medical facilities that treat the indigent, the mentally ill and the incarcerated. It has earned the name ‘the tool shed’ for its ghastly amputations and brutal surgeries.
Rasko rubs his hand over dried blood and a bandaged wound. He feels filthy and can
You can submit to featured, but submit your BEST because that's the only place we seem to have quality control~!
Nothing with the Mature Filter ON
No Violent or Gore artwork
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