“A poet is a nightingale, who sits in darkness and sings to cheer its own solitude with sweet sounds.” -Percy Bysshe Shelley
Sunday, November 6, 2016
(unnamed)
It is magic
and you cannot stop me
from saving myself
from a worn out hex
bestowed onto to me.
It is energy (also chi)
and used methodically
to end this mean curse
in-heir-antly placed
I may live
by breaking.
It is healing,
helping myself,
or magic.
It is not about you.
It makes
me better.
It is the art
of magic.
Artwork credit By Internet Archive Book Images, Ladies Home Journal 1948 [No restrictions], via Wikimedia Commons.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
Drizzle
The muse has been muted while we are both listening for some reason- we have both observed; Profound is not discovery, Epiphany is no certa...
-
Natures touch is both gentle and fierce. Homo sapiens trample on her back. The thick skin impossible to pierce. So...
-
A year ago this May, in fact, upon this same very grey day- something came over me I found could say, in no other way but to portray, ...
-
Sun lifting the veil of purple sky- might bronze forge strength pungent as the turned dirt? Thirsting through exposition, hi...

No comments:
Post a Comment