“A poet is a nightingale, who sits in darkness and sings to cheer its own solitude with sweet sounds.” -Percy Bysshe Shelley
Monday, June 1, 2020
The life of a spark
Just beneath the skin of surface
something darker
traveled through
like a current
can only be felt
in volume.
Right outside of the visual range
a source of heat
like an explosion of light
ignited
all that could be flammable
was taken asunder.
What lurks like intuition
our own shadow seems detached,
aloof and cool to the touch.
An absence only felt
as nothing
that could be caught.
Painting by Winslow Homer (1836-190) , 'Campfire, Adirondacks', c. 1892 in Public Domain.
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