PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

He glanced around the room abashedly. Her home was humble yet shown with the chaotic dishevelment that was a sign of the free spirit. The dining table flailed piles of unopened mail around a drying clay sculpture of what appeared to be a whirling dervish, a dressform hung with a half sewn blouse, books books books stacked on couch, chair and nearly every other horizontal surface, an easel displayed a large pink flower rendered in psychedelic fashion.
"I call it Sonic Bloom" she said studying the painting as if it were speaking to her.
"Yes yes I can see why." He admired her artistic sensibility. Though she might not possess the talent, she made up for it with tenacity. Leaning against the kitchen counter, he stuffed his hands in his jeans pockets, fearful of disturbing her glorious mess. "So how's it going? Are you making ends meet?"
She offered him a slice of apple, "there is only one end in this life and it is called Death... and not even that is an ending."
There it was... the thing he loved most about her was also what sent him running. She spoke with conviction honed like a fine rapier.