“A poet is a nightingale, who sits in darkness and sings to cheer its own solitude with sweet sounds.” -Percy Bysshe Shelley
Saturday, February 4, 2017
Eurydice got jaundice
Be cause
the slight sulphuric smell
whisked off the top
by the cool purple night
sent signals, scented
words artists understand
as beckoning
-It is safe to come out Now-
And,
as far as frequency may go
undetected
and we hope to scatter awe,
curiously as
indiscriminately as dreams
Do.
Why choose these
creators, creatures,
to translate such dark
thoughts to bodily form,
two birds on one stone
already shared the whole sky
what more could be said...
How could feeble eye
capture any more light
with one small grounded
sol
such as
belief in something more there
may be, brighter than this thought
could scatter its spotted array
today
sketched out in perse ink.
Dried pens and then,
bruising egos bright,
all of this goes garish yellow,
away and tinged
in tangibility, catagorically,
and it is no longer clear,
How
my fellow man,
plans to capture
all of this
so beautifully.
The artist listens
to brilliance breathe regularly
in deep starlight strokes and matches its
rhythm. and tries to remember
every thing that has ever been created
for arts sake.
It is reason enough
to wake.
Artwork by John Roddam Spencer Stanhope (1878) in [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.
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