trickles upon my page
flows from my mind
and puddles on my poetry.
This diluted poison
this contamination
is the all to present
fluid imagery.
What of the other states?
Are they equally profound?
Who do words flow from us
when they can also be built,
rolled like a snowball,
shattered like a glass window
forged like the finest steel
raised like a mountain
over millennium
of monstrous massive
effort.
Or what of gas
The very air we collectively breath
The most insubstantial element
Can words billow
from a willing mind?
Are poems nothing but
the sweet exhale of life?
Can words rise and drift
sweep upon the earth
hang in others hearts.
What is fluid to the power
of the earth and of the sky?
No comments:
Post a Comment