The Language

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.

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