The Word.

The curse,
of the poet,
was born,
in the tongue;
a thought,
turned to word,
and the damage –
is done;
the art,
of the sonnet,
has risen,
to fall down;
a truth,
all the world,
the words,
of a poet,
like grains,
of fine sands;
that scatter,
and remain,
it lands;
a story,
still unfolding,
being written,
across the age;
each muse,
every trauma,
becomes another page.

3 thoughts on “The Word.

  1. JunkChuck says:

    You’re so damn prolific, I’m running out of good things to say–another great post. I’m intrigued, as usual, by your unique use of short stanzas. That sounds pompous as hell, but there it is–I like poetry that does something well in a way that challenges my own aesthetic. There’s a lot of really average verse on the pages I follow, and that’s part of what I like about wordpress–it is egalitarian, and it excites me just to see so many voices writing (the mixed metaphor is intentional)–but the voices that really sing, like yours, are a rare treat. You’re one of the people here who don’t seem to know how good at this writing thing they are–and that’s kind of cool, too.


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