Is it possible to get high on poetry? Because Lang Leav just took me on a whole other level with her craft. She is brilliant. Wait no, I believe no word can truly understand what I mean. As cliche as that may have sounded. It is way beyond that.
Unnerving. Evocative. That’s what critics describe her. But with me, no adjective comes to mind.
When I read Lang Leav’s works, instead of adjectives, I think about moments. The transcient kinds. The beautifully fleeting ones like a butterfly gently resting on the curve of your knuckle before it is startled by your reflexes. The ones that make your eyes wide with wonder, your jaw hanging with unadulterated amusement. That split instant before the sun turns over its luminating duties to the moon. It’s the kind that makes you stop what you’re doing, discard all the clutter in your mind and bask in the memory and the nostalgia that her words lure you into.
I adore you, Lang. In all the languages humanly possible.