“A poet is a nightingale, who sits in darkness and sings to cheer its own solitude with sweet sounds.” -Percy Bysshe Shelley
Showing posts with label turbid. Show all posts
Showing posts with label turbid. Show all posts
Friday, February 3, 2017
super-natural and extra-ordinary
Most mistake
miracles for
just coincidence,
which is ironic
as a rule,
coincidence is when
the obstacle is dissolved entirely
just solutions remain
concentrated ad-mixtures
of luck and faith, a coupling
tangled making waves
turbid in the wake
hours
that cannot count stars
that doubts itself
clear enough
for the common kind
of man to consume
as pure prophecy
by numbers.
It is possible,
it was more than probable
that this kind
was a miracle
of just willful
coincidence.
Painting by Jean-François Millet [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
Gravitas
For every poem I put here, there are four more never shared, around six never written and twenty-seven partially thought out. For every word...

-
1. Of my Soul a street is: Preternatural Pic- abian tricktrickclickflidk-er garner of starfish Picasso...
-
Someone said, the full moon looks larger in the city because of skyscrapers- which said nothing about people feeling smaller, more co...
-
Water Today, warm raindrops glass blurs, the blurry glassy, sharp sparkles sugar. Behind Evening, it was good. Leaves all turned into shadow...