Monday, 22 August 2016


original digital illustration by amy leonard

Perfectly uniform like herringbone bricks, images repeatedly rise. A door. A key. A butterfly. Lips like roses. It 
occurs to me I don’t know what its name is.  
           'Psyche', a word sometimes lit by candles, surrounded by tigers eye and smelling of nag champa. A word that feels incorrect.
           I want to describe the place deeper than the sea, swelling with more stories then the records under the paw of the Great Sphinx. It’s opening is a secret somewhere on the body. Maybe.
           'Soul' a shape-shifting idea enduring, but in the mouths of nuns and gurus, it is a worse word. Even with deliberate dedication, and even in my dreams, the firmament lit by a spirit throwing lightening is unbelievable.
           A storm glass predicts the tea-leaf shape of clouds on the bone-china arch of the sky. An incandescent rock shreds the night with light, we wonder, but we know it is friction within the envelope of gases in the vault of heaven. A bolt from the blue is explainable.
           But the dead don’t speak. And it isn’t 'psychic'. It could be essence, crux, marrow, meat, nucleus. It could be a door. A key. A butterfly. Lips like roses. 

©Amy Leonard, 2016.

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