Kristin Reynolds Poets Poet 4

A Sense of Diamonds To hear me would sound like a symphony of octaves – played all at once with concrete fingers on diamond in the rough strings. To see me…O’, to see me you would have to turn, ever so slightly sideways, to ensure proper exposure – one would not wish to either scar his or her retinas with too much light; or murder their spirits with silky raven on a moonless night, darkness. No, no. That is far too much for the eyes to bear. To touch me would be like dipping warm fingertips into a pool of liquid mercury; like the sun’s rays beneath the water, touching the ocean’s deepest silver depths. The scent of me would bring your waiting nose to a dichotomy of frenzy – one side wanton, and as eager as a schoolboy with a playboy – but the other side! The other nostril would shrivel under scrutiny; buckle under the burning scent of disgust and unrefined madness, as if you were smelling your own death, not the florid scent of Eden. And to taste me…to taste me would leave the tongue as twisted as a winter apple’s branches; as torn as a wool tartan from the shoulder’s of a traitor; and as confused as a year without Spring. To taste me would be like tasting every dream you ever lusted, and every ending that ever broke you – like sipping lemonade in the void. But…if you are the one; the only one in the midst of all this impenetrable chaos who can sense me, beyond the average man’s malleable stone-walled borders – than I bid you come. Test the likes of this diamond against your rough-hewn backdrop – try me on for size; see if you have the stones to not. Get. Cut.