“A poet is a nightingale, who sits in darkness and sings to cheer its own solitude with sweet sounds.” -Percy Bysshe Shelley
Thursday, June 2, 2016
Echo-interpretation
Few knew
how little we were
hoping to be noticed
Not that
they wanted more
and less to be seen
here
Some found
they never heard
(of) the likes of you
before
Some sought
outside as outcasts
too frigidly
accommodating
Some stayed
in place and inside
by the fire
alit with artistic rage
Not many
more than we
can handle
touching
poetry
without scalding
the tips
And know
none pine
for ringing cedars, pet rocks
or chop words, but quarry
here
for the echo...
Image of painting By Adolf Mosengel (1837-1885) (Dorotheum) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.
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