He Who Sketched Poem by Elna Nel

he told me a morning glory
he pasted my blues with pinks
to a lasting affection story
and he thinks

I keep the face of his voice
neatly tied in my heart
almost translucent the pitch
of insecurity and pain

he writes bundles of words
disturbing my tolerance
but there is no one beside him
collecting more affection

and unless his tense
and tender strokes
touch the cloth

I do not feel rightly won
by his voice as it soars
light across my ears as sun

now the steep steps of memory
is a lasting collection of his dialect
as he spoke softly into the fence
of approval to me still

he succeeded
by picking such tender glory
for the colour of my story

his hands are paper-thin petals
I thought
as he sketched
on the material of my life
in pencil grey dense

I painted the cloth
then gave it to his eyes for always
to make sense
I kept his voice


20/8/2012