They say poetry is like breathing:
inhale, exhale, the way the heart
pulls in what it's learned then
shares it with its hungry body.
All beauty is not light-filled,
dark words too have artistry;
they bring what they have captured
and lay it at our feet.
As we dream in poetry, a brilliant
heat, birds, the moths, swirling stars
compete to kindle us. On a white
piece of paper, the ink is blood.
No comments:
Post a Comment