Poets acquire humanity
In their undoing, this
Dangerous self-destructive art
Who dares be ridiculed a poet these days?
This secret subversive pleasure
Isn’t it so, that we are the houses
Of art that try to be haunted
To feel what others dare not!?
Painting they say is silent poetry
Poetry is painting that speaks
But for whom does it speak?
These echoes asking shadows
To dance, that communicates
Without or before understanding
To sit in the dark and sing
To cheer its own solitude
With sweet sounds, where O where
Are the sweet sounds of old?
Poets die trying to be poets
I’ve seen it with my own eyes
Poetry is an escape from emotion
An instinct to tell stories
Like a seer or a prophet in hard times.