“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.
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