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Description
I read your letters

in places of cruel isolation

where they can be understood.

In your sardonic script:

"the hands of time sharpen the Reaper's scythe"

We, who knew the place

where time's current flows

by our desire

separated in some purgation

of fractured words

that whisper back:

"fingerless, the hands of time squeeze the mortal throat"

Image: Photographic Prints on shaded paper background, set on fire.
Words: Poetic caption for the image, based on ideas from both photo poetry and Ekphrastic poetry. I am particularly interested in self-collaboration in the role of both artist and writer, with image and word evolving in a body of work through visual and written dialogue.

Description
I read your letters

in places of cruel isolation

where they can be understood.

In your sardonic script:

"the hands of time sharpen the Reaper's scythe"

We, who knew the place

where time's current flows

by our desire

separated in some purgation

of fractured words

that whisper back:

"fingerless, the hands of time squeeze the mortal throat"

Image: Photographic Prints on shaded paper background, set on fire.
Words: Poetic caption for the image, based on ideas from both photo poetry and Ekphrastic poetry. I am particularly interested in self-collaboration in the role of both artist and writer, with image and word evolving in a body of work through visual and written dialogue.