“A poet is a nightingale, who sits in darkness and sings to cheer its own solitude with sweet sounds.” -Percy Bysshe Shelley
Thursday, April 28, 2016
Peace(s)
Crumbled
into randomized fragments
of pointed feeling
the blunted parts
have no meaning
anymore-aligned-
once was whole
Fumbled
for something solid
like nerve
and trembled when I touched
down and felt myself
holding air
-There-
I stumbled
on steep logic, up
alps of apprehension
cast-over-shadow scintillant
Humbled and haggard,
I mumble in awe...
Matter moves (us)
to make a sign.
Image stained glass window, All Saints By Poliphilo (Own work) [CC0], via Wikimedia Commons.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
Tres (trace)
Water Today, warm raindrops glass blurs, the blurry glassy, sharp sparkles sugar. Behind Evening, it was good. Leaves all turned into shadow...
-
1. Of my Soul a street is: Preternatural Pic- abian tricktrickclickflidk-er garner of starfish Picasso...
-
This world is not for breath for feelings also come and go. As hard and light as Push and pull Go. Busy hands and bees-electricity, alter...
-
Today seems like a good day to burn a bridge or two. The sky resembles a backlit canopy with holes punched in it. In California...
No comments:
Post a Comment