“A poet is a nightingale, who sits in darkness and sings to cheer its own solitude with sweet sounds.” -Percy Bysshe Shelley
Friday, May 3, 2019
Respiration; Inhale
He said we are doing it wrong.
None of us take in enough.
Honestly.
As if this regulation
Was anything more than an expression of self-
deprecation
Whereby,
The Universe must be
Breathing us in instead of the other way around.
As if all were not made
in exchange
for what was needed most.
As if any-one was not worthy
of inhale.
I follow sounds with reasons.
It was said
We should only speak in exhale,
which blows treble
Over the top of a quiet rustle
A cacophony
Unanswered
Baseless breathing refused to unlatch
The belly of burden, to remember
To breathe.
Painting by Thomas Cole, 'View of the Round Top in the Catskill Mountains' c. 1827 [Public domain].
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