And so
I let love
place it's knife
to my throat
and
bleed me
until
my veins
ran dry.

A poem is built with sounds
Liberally littered with alliteration
Rhyming reason
Aspiring assonance
Up metaphorical mountains.

Each letter plays its part.
A cast of cascading chords
Making mystical music
For the discerning ear.

Operatic musicals from the Muse:
A crescendo of noise
Or sometimes
Whispers in the winnowing wind.

I write because I must,
Because I need to
In answer to
The Call.

Paul Butters

I wanted to drink away pain, instead it drank me.