“A poet is a nightingale, who sits in darkness and sings to cheer its own solitude with sweet sounds.” -Percy Bysshe Shelley
Wednesday, April 13, 2016
Cross-polination
untouched by light-yet-
feels its warmth and reaches out-
made bigger by desire-
hard wood, hard-ly virgin
forests for the feral trees-
wild in her-ness, promiscuous
phallacy, the protection
of innocence, guarded in a sense-
an essence burgeoning out-
no reason to celibate...
Image by By Jon Sullivan (Public-domain-image.com) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
Gravitas
For every poem I put here, there are four more never shared, around six never written and twenty-seven partially thought out. For every word...

-
1. Of my Soul a street is: Preternatural Pic- abian tricktrickclickflidk-er garner of starfish Picasso...
-
Someone said, the full moon looks larger in the city because of skyscrapers- which said nothing about people feeling smaller, more co...
-
Water Today, warm raindrops glass blurs, the blurry glassy, sharp sparkles sugar. Behind Evening, it was good. Leaves all turned into shadow...
No comments:
Post a Comment