This is the place
The thing I came for:
A moment of the pause of poetry
Where life melts into meaning
Barely objective, the subjective-myth
The tentative haunter of my spirit
Who circles me silently in the night
While I sleep, the eyes
From which I shall return


This is the place
The cowardice of courage
A half-destroyed instrument of soul-sense
A freedom in failure
I came to explore the wreck
Of the human condition
To taste things for myself
Slowly along the flanks of hidden treasures


It pumps my blood with power and chi
The kind of oxygen charged with blue light
That sends the author in me some hope
That I may write questions worth asking
I have to learn alone
I have a lot of work to do.

Poetry Courtesy: http://www.deviantart.com/art/Just-a-perfect-day-292908195


    • That’s what it feels like to love something, a craft, a trade that is bound to get us no recognition, $, rewards, but those inherent in the act of creation itself. I find poetry a fine example of this.

      Someone said it pays or costs to be a poet. And I concur.

      • I see what you mean. I think to love and nurture a craft of any kind is a beautiful burden. It’s a cross that you have to bear alone, and that makes it so special, and so very sacred.

  1. Yes, the place, that thing… it feeds my malnourished soul with the beauty of language, the wonder to convey the unspoken and open the heart & mind to experience truth and knowledge and imagination and creation…. *happy sigh*

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